Another day, driving home after a long morning at work. As I maneuver through the city traffic, a snippet of a trendy song plays on my cell phone—a hit from more than ten years ago. "I'm getting old," I think, answering the call using the controls built into my SUV's steering wheel.
"Honey, a few minutes ago I placed an order for some things I need from Don Toño’s store."
"Yes, dear," I reply. "I've got it, I'll go. Remind me of the address, please."
I receive the directions from my wife and program the built-in navigation system to take me to the destination. I take a deep breath and steer the vehicle toward the new route. Sitting in the driver's seat, I can't help but enjoy the comforts my ride offers: air conditioning, power doors and windows, surround sound to listen to my old music, and a long list of etceteras.
"You have arrived at your destination," the navigation system announces in a robotic voice.
I park properly and get out of the car. I am greeted by a traditional, working-class barrio—one of those places that modernity has been falsely eroding with the promise of security from new gated communities and condo buildings. As I cross the street, I watch a couple of kids kicking a battered soccer ball while shouting, "Messi beats Cristiano Ronaldo with this shot!" At the same time, an old man in a light-colored hat, sitting on the sidewalk, laughs at the kids.
I reach the door. It’s a small place that was almost certainly just a house before, now adapted for business; above the lintel, a sign clearly sponsored by a cola company reads in big red letters: "Abarrotes Don Toño." I pull a small string that serves to open a time-worn lock and step inside.
Instantly, I am invaded by the unmistakable aroma of a corner grocery store—that distinct scent that blends the essences of vegetables, fruits, cold cuts, dairy, and cleaning products into a single chord. Above all, it is the sharp, dry hit of powdered laundry detergent floating in the air that makes my mind falter. A hazy veil passes over my eyes, transporting me to a place I thought I had forgotten. With a strange sensation in my body, I look at my hands: they are not those of a man over fifty; they are, once again, those of a little boy grabbing a cardboard box filled precisely with bags of soap, following the order of a face and voice from the past.
"Daniel, that box goes in that corner."
I look toward that spot and see a familiar hand, wrinkled and sun-spotted, pointing to an old wooden shelf where I am to place the box. I look around and recognize the corners: the old scale, the old tube TV that brought me so much joy watching cartoons while helping my parents, the shelves filled with old-fashioned candies, lollipops, and sweets sold in bulk, and, of course, that wooden crate that every single day, religiously at five in the afternoon, smelled of freshly baked pan dulce—the kind the town baker distributed to the local shops for sale.
I look toward the back of the store and there she is, sitting in an old wicker chair, her apron frayed from use, her wrinkled, beautiful hands busy cleaning a bundle of onions whose smell of damp earth mixes with the soap: my grandmother, old Conchita—"Mamá Conchita," as all us grandkids called her. A sweet little old lady with hair that used to be blonde, but by then was more white than gray; a warm, round figure who invited endless hugs, and a pair of rainbow eyes that, when I was a kid, made me think God had mixed up His watercolors when He painted them.
That little old lady who taught me everything from cleaning onions and potatoes to sell at the store, to making fruit candies that we obviously sold too; from tying my shoelaces into a perfect knot that could withstand a whole day of running wild, to properly cutting the wood and ixtle twine to build the lightest, most perfect kite to fly in the evening winds. The one who patiently taught me every card in the Spanish deck and how to spot cheating, as well as how to read the Bible properly so I could do it at church during services. That little old lady whose mind vanished in an instant due to a brain hemorrhage, and who never again said to me, "Danielito, wash your hands so you and I can have an empanada."
"Don Daniel, Don Daniel, here is the order your wife asked me to give you. I included the floor cleaner she likes," Don Toño says, gently shaking my shoulder and bringing me back to reality. "You lost yourself for a second there, Don Daniel."
"Thank you, Don Toño. How much do I owe you?"
I hand him a couple of bills that far exceed the total cost of the items and leave. As I open the door, the "corner store" smell vanishes, and a silent tear rolls down my cheek.