The Ground Was Painted Red

The ground was painted red.

There he was, surrounded by corn kernels and chickens staring at him hungrily, as if he were their next meal.

Perhaps that day, the chickens tried a new kind of feed.

He had always seemed so cheerful, so bold, so full of life, that none of us ever imagined he would come to that point. His energy was contagious—he had a strange charm that drew everyone in, always keeping some conversation going among the boys and his wife. He was, without a doubt, one of the most eloquent people I ever met. He fed our curiosity to the point of drowning us in questions upon questions, which he gladly answered while preparing our favorite snacks, as the gossip flowed endlessly.

We could spend hours listening to his stories—his sorrows, his losses, and the names of his enemies. He painted scenes so vividly with his words that it was impossible not to follow along. Simply put, he was exquisite to listen to. The farm where he lived came alive through his eloquence, and my heart would race with excitement. Those were, without a doubt, our golden days.

But everything changed.

The relentless rhythm of life made us stop visiting him as often. We went long stretches without seeing each other, and though that hurt, it also made each reunion more meaningful—for him, and for us. We loved him deeply.

But life had other plans.

A streak of bad luck, a bad season, a bad day—anyone can have them.

But for him, it wasn’t just that. It was the final drop that overflowed the glass… until the ground was painted red.

Endless rains, storm after storm, bats nesting in the ceiling seeking shelter—his house could no longer withstand it. With no money, no help, and above all, without ever telling us what was happening, everything began to fall apart. We wanted to visit, but it became impossible. With each new storm, his pleas for us to come grew more desperate.

And still, we didn’t go.

Maybe if we had gone. Just maybe…

I can imagine my cucho’s anguish—always so capable, so resilient—standing on the edge of collapse. His heart couldn’t bear to watch his home crumble day after day, unable to stop the rain or keep the wind from tearing off the roof tiles. He couldn’t take it anymore.

And yet, he still held onto the hope that we would visit him.

Maybe that was his last call.

I remember with my soul that final week, before everything changed forever. He wouldn’t stop insisting that my brother and I go see him. But we couldn’t—school kept us tied up during the week.

Still, we had already packed our bags to visit that weekend.

We were so close to seeing him again. So close.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

The storm finally cleared, and rays of sunlight broke through, as if announcing a new beginning. But the damage was already done. His mind had deteriorated beyond return, and it took just one simple argument for everything to stop being as it should have been.

The ground was painted red.

That morning, we found el cucho in the barn, surrounded by the chickens he loved so much. Beside him lay the cause of the bloodstained ground—his beloved pistol.