English Text:
Grandmother Beatriz was almost always silent, her eyes were tired, her arms weighed her
down, you could feel it.
In the mornings, I would see her whispering into the silence, with her look lost like she was
waiting for someone that never appeared.
In the afternoons, she would dress elegantly and sit beneath the Anón tree on her rocking chair
made of iron, in the neighborhood of the dirt road with no exit.
In the evenings, her voice would calm me, as she told me bedtime stories about the mouth of
crocodiles and the boy who saved his family from danger.

Spanish Text
Abuela Beatriz casi siempre estaba en silencio, sus ojos cansados, sus hombros le pesaban,
podías sentirlo.
Por las mañanas la veía suspirando en silencio, con su mirada perdida como esperando a
alguien que nunca llegaba.
Por las tardes se vestía muy elegante. Siempre podías encontrar la bajo la mata de anón,
sentada en su balance de hierro en el barrio del callejón sin salida.
Por las noches, su voz me calmaba, contándome historias para dormir de las bocas de
cocodrilos y del niño que salvó a su familia del peligro.