Riding in my grandparents' car, suddenly, spring. Every year it comes the same way: there is a bend on the way to their house where there are some almond trees. They are always the first to blossom. And spring comes when my grandparents give the order, when my grandmother suddenly rejoices and they both comment on those first blossoms.
Spring comes early when my grandparents can no longer bear to see it, because they need air and good weather. My grandparents have a beautiful garden, they make an effort to take care of it every day, and they happily conspire over their fruit trees and flowers.
That's why spring appears that week in February. Because my grandparents decide. I imagine spring waiting to see my grandfather gripping the steering wheel, taking the turn. And my grandmother curving her smile, and exclaiming happily. Then spring decrees: it's ready, let's get to work, boys. And the land bustles fertile.
I go to my grandparents' house for lunch on Tuesdays. After lunch we talk about how barbarically time goes by. Santiago in September will enter the university. And Cris has done very well that job interview. The joy of having grandchildren.
I smile. We are like the first almond trees of spring. I don't know if my grandparents smile because they bloom, or because my grandparents smile because they bloom.
What is certain is that my grandparents conspire happily over flowers and fruit trees. Also about their grandchildren. They want to strike the big blow: for spring to come.
The spring of the grandchildren begins like the spring of the almond trees: when two curves meet. The one that goes down to your house, the one that draws your smile.
