The imps that didn't emigrate

     A little disoriented by the gaze of the children filling the streets of her old town, she sought solace in memories of the last day she was in her homeland, years ago. That beautiful and fresh morning that remained forever engraved in her heart. The day she left Nicaragua with an old suitcase and a bag of rosquillas and pinolillo for distant relatives whom she had been taught to love, but whom she had never seen. She remembered the innocence with which she headed north, thinking that in the United States there would be no coffee, no fruits, nor bread. After all, the people returning to her town never stopped saying how much they missed sweets, jocotes, and a cup of coffee from the mountains of the north.

    

        She returned now with a changed heart, with eyes full of world and with new experiences neatly organized in her new suitcase. After all, she now knew about computers, filed her taxes every year, read the newspaper online, and even understood a bit about the precipitous fall of the stock market because she had discussed the events on message boards. Likewise, she no longer believed in superstitions or haunted paths populated by imps with turned feet and red coats. She contained her laughter remembering that when she left the town, she worried that the imps would follow her, harassing her, throwing little stones at her, and calling her by name, just as boys in love did with pretty girls. After all, who didn't know the story of the famous imp from Yalagüina who emigrated to Honduras? Yes, the same one who carried flowers and played guitar for Juanita Vindell? What about the mischievous imps from Cuapa who went after Florita's mom to help her carry the chamber pot when she moved? But no. Theseimps were less adventurous and didn't go anywhere with her. She never saw them in the United States, not even in the neighborhoods of Miami or San Francisco, where there are plenty of Nicaraguans, and it smells like nacatamales.

    Her beliefs took on a new path, and she learned to speak a new language. Her vocabulary changed from Ceguas, Imps, and Mocuanas to Weeping ladies, Bloody Mary (carefully avoiding repeating the name three times in front of a dark bathroom mirror), leprechauns, and haunted houses. The electrical pollution of her new life helped her to forget about the legends of her homeland, where superstition was the natural habitat of the village apparitions and their extravagant roadside tales.

    Now, back in her town, she rose from the rocking chair and ventured into the night to walk the old dirt road without fears or regrets. She didn't notice that behind a Chilamate tree, quiet and unhurried, the same little imps from her past fears were spying on her again. There they were, with their little stones in hand, tuning their voices to sing her love stories. As close to her as her own shadow, ready to whisper that they remained faithful to the town and to her return. Eager to tell her that the land, like its ghosts, never forgets those who emigrate. They had been there waiting to see her again, making a commotion behind the airport windows, waiting to see what she brought with her. They were ready for her to cross the magical threshold of Nicaragua so they could help her carry her suitcase.