Golondrina is showing me all the ways she can count to one hundred. She tells me it would take her all of Oma’s life to count to infinity, and continues counting by fives.
I look at her, lying next to me on her bed. Her black eyes are full of sparkle. Her breath is warm on my face, and she smells sweet, of soap and damp hair. She is stretched out, but her energy… it is so much larger, and full of fire. She is so alive, full of movement, even when she lies still.
Golondrina counts slower, now, counting by twos.
And I imagine the Oma I only knew as a grandmother, an adult, at seven. What could be seen in her young, blue-grey eyes? What sparks were evident in her being? What did she share with her mother, with conviction and excitement? What made her slow down, hesitate?