Yo veo

Antonieta is dead.
I was slowly aroused from my slumber by the sounds of honking horns, heavy and heaving with the frustration of the drivers behind the wheels of the bruised up, knocked up, beaten up micros and combis careening through the narrow and congested streets of Lima. It was a little after seven o'clock in the morning when Antonieta de las Nubes Rojas, an elderly lady I had met on my first day in Lima, knocked on my door in the cheap and derelict hostel in the heart of the City of Kings I had slept in for the past 5 months. An appendage of the hostel, with sepia-seeping, dusty extravagance, Antonieta knocked on my door every day at 7.
It was a gentle and meek knock. I greeted her and gave her a sol.
Clouded eyes, creaking joints, yet reeking of vigor, Antonieta wore unusual and extravagant, shiny and jewel-toned clothes.
She was wearing large dark sunglasses, her other features slight and miniature in comparison. Her red satin pants tight on her frail frame, her white blouse embroidered with tiny, glistening marigolds. Her chunky yellow sandals encasing her slim, veiny feet, hard with callouses. She wore her hair down and puffed up, her lips bright red, like a cherry on sand paper. She greeted me, her English broken and awkward, but her voice strong and musical. I thanked her and gave her the sol I gave her every morning. And every morning she would thank me. She would say, in her Quechua/Spanish, which my own broken ears struggled to understand, that she arose daily in solitude (though always in the presence of God). She lived in a small room in the rooftop plywood-hut of the hostel. The hostel owner would allow this in exchange for her cleaning up after the stream of visiting backpackers with their tittering chatter and the industrious trans-sexual sex workers. Two wake-up calls meant Antonieta had enough for bread and a few eggs for breakfast. Lugging luggage meant choclo and queso fresco for lunch. She needed money for her medicine and so she didn't have dinner.
After my wake-up call, Antonieta ran down to the bodega across the street. A German tourist had asked her for a phone card. This meant she might be able eat something at night. As she crossed the street, time suddenly came to a stop for Antonieta. She saw the horrified faces of the people on the street, the speeding combi failing to stop. She felt so light, not one single bone in her body ached. She felt as if she were floating on a cloud.
Antonieta de las Nubes Rojas was dead.