Amalia

<< How to imagine that old woman was close to ninety years old? She still had her slenderness, her long hair like snow, tied back in a bun, just as she had done for more than fifty years.

Every morning the ritual in front of the mirror was repeated like a leisurely ceremony. Those hands carved like the fields, with furrows of joy and pain, took small portions of hair, braided it sinuously and with old hairpins it remained crimped until nightfall.

(...)

Her mother handed her a cup of coffee. The coffee her mother made every morning was unmistakable, its aroma spread throughout the house, making it warm, the smell of dry wood burning, too.

There are smells that remain in your memory since childhood, when you perceive them again they provoke emotions as strong as the reunion with an old lover in old photographs.

And there it was, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, with that unique blend that her mother made, she bought the coffee beans, ground them and put them in boiling water, pierced her senses, and as lightning made her travel to her childhood in her mind. >>