The Blue Cup

(This story explores themes of illness, grief, and life during a pandemic, told through the lens of a child.)

The white metal gate clangs shut behind me, and I hop over the first crack in the sidewalk – you can't step on the lines, everyone knows that brings bad luck. My mother grips my hand tightly and walks so fast that my little legs have to do a funny dance to keep up, like a baby roadrunner from the cartoons Papa and I watch on Sundays.

"Don't touch anything," she reminds me for the third time since we left home. I swing our joined hands anyway, watching how her plastic glove crinkles with each movement.

Behind the building, the weekend market reveals itself, but it looks different now. The usual symphony of voices has turned into whispers behind masks. Empty spaces gap between the stalls like missing teeth – where Don Luis should be selling his ice cream, where Doña Carmen's flowers usually make rainbows against the gray walls, where the Don Juan sells small toys.

"Where is Don Luis?" I ask Mama, looking for his white cart with the colourful umbrella. He always gives me an extra scoop of lime ice cream, saying it's "for his favourite customer."

"He's staying home for now, mi amor," Mama says softly. "Like many people these days."

We pass the tortilla stand where the machine still whirs, but the lady who usually pinches my cheeks just waves from behind her plastic shield. Three stalls down, the wooden frames that usually hold Doña Carmen's hanging plants stand bare and lonely. Papa bought me a little cactus there last month, saying it was perfect because it was "small but strong, just like you."

The quiet spaces make our footsteps echo. No music from Don Roberto's radio, no call of "¡Elotes, elotes calientes!" from the corn vendor, no children running between stalls while their parents’ shop. Even the spice seller's corner, usually bursting with colours and smells, has its metal shutters pulled down, a paper sign taped to the front that Mama reads but doesn't explain to me.

"There are less people every week," I hear one vendor whisper to another as we pass. "First Don Luis, then Carmen, now Roberto..."

At the vegetable stand, towers of produce stretch above me like tiny mountains. I spot a potato that looks exactly like my teacher's nose and giggle behind my mask.

"A kilo of limes, please," my mother says to the vendor. The woman's words come out muffled, and when Mama can't understand, the vendor points to a plastic bag hanging from a string. "For the money," she explains, pulling her mask down briefly. Mama drops the coins into the bag, and the vendor uses her gloved hands to count them.

I've always loved the colors here – the deep purple of onions, the fierce red of tomatoes, the cheerful green of limes. When Papa brings me, he makes up stories about the vegetables having secret lives at night. "Those chiles are actually sleeping dragons," he'd whisper, making me laugh.

"Mama, can we get watermelon?" I ask, remembering how Papa always cuts it into perfect little squares for me, fishing out every single black seed because he knows they make me think of tiny bugs.

"Not today, corazón. We need to hurry."

At the herb stand, bunches of plants hang like green curtains. I spot the chamomile and pull down my mask just a tiny bit – I love how it smells like sunshine and lazy afternoons.

"The mask!" Mama scolds, but I see her eyes crinkle like she's smiling underneath her own mask. The herb vendor wraps our chamomile in newspaper, carefully placing it in our bag next to the limes.

"The honey, Mama! We can't forget the honey!" I bounce on my toes, almost falling into a crate of epazote.

The honey vendor has set up a clever system – a long wooden spoon that reaches from his table to where the customers stand. He dollops golden honey into our jar like he's conducting an orchestra, and I pretend to conduct along with him until Mama gently pulls my arms down.

On our way home, we pass Papa's mechanic workshop. The metal gate is closed, with a sign I can't read hanging on it. Don Héctor, who works with Papa fixing cars, is outside talking to some other mechanics. Their masks can't hide how worried they look.

"How is Roberto doing?" Don Héctor asks Mama. His usually cheerful voice sounds different, like when he has to tell someone their car can't be fixed.

"The same as last Sunday," Mama responds, squeezing my hand tighter. They talk in low voices about things I don't understand – something about three other mechanics getting sick, about the workshop staying closed for a while.

I peek through the gate's bars at Papa's empty work station. His red toolbox sits lonely on the bench, waiting. Usually, it's open like a treasure chest, full of wrenches and screwdrivers that Papa lets me organize by size. "My right hand," he always calls me, even though I sometimes mix up the Phillips and flathead screwdrivers.

"Let’s go, mi amor," Mama says, pulling me away. I wave goodbye to Don Héctor, but he's looking at the ground, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

At home, Mama spreads yesterday's newspaper across the kitchen table. She starts taking things out of our bags, making little piles – fruits here, vegetables there, the herbs and honey separate.

"Mi amor, can you bring me the blue container? The one with the white wipes?" She's already pulled on a fresh pair of plastic gloves. I know exactly which one she means – it's become part of our routine, like brushing teeth or saying prayers before bed.

I drag my little pink stool to the laundry room cabinet. The container is on the top shelf, next to all the other bottles and sprays that have appeared in our house lately. It smells sharp and clean, like the doctor's office.

Back in the kitchen, Mama starts her cleaning dance. That's what I call it because she always does the same movements in the same order, like the choreographies I learn in ballet class. First the limes, one by one, each getting its own wipe. The honey jar gets two wipes because it's glass and "glass needs extra attention," according to Mama. Even the newspaperwrapped chamomile gets a gentle wipe down.

"Why do we have to clean everything?" I ask, even though I've asked before. I like the way Mama explains things, how she makes scary things seem normal.

"Because we need to be extra careful right now, mi cielo," she says, moving on to the last lime. "Like when you wash your hands after playing with Lucky, remember? Some things we can't see, but we still need to clean them away."

I think about Lucky, our neighbour's cat who sometimes visits our window. Papa used to say he was our good luck charm. I haven't seen Lucky in a while – maybe he's staying home too.

When everything is clean and dry, Mama fills the kettle while I arrange everything on the counter like a cooking show host. "First, ladies and gentlemen," I announce to my imaginary audience, "we need the perfect cup." I select Papa's favourite one, the blue one with little white clouds that I gave him for Father's Day.

Mama slices the limes so thin they're almost transparent. "Can I add the honey?" I ask, already reaching for the jar. "Careful," she warns, but lets me dip the spoon in. I watch the honey spiral down into the hot water, making tiny golden tornadoes.

"I want to put the chamomile in too!" I declare, carefully selecting the prettiest flowers. Some of the petals float away from the stems, like tiny boats on a yellow sea. "Alright, mi amor, take this to your father," Mama says, her voice getting that weird tight sound it has nowadays. "But remember your mask, and be careful – it's very hot."

I take the cup with both hands, walking as slowly and carefully as when I was Mary in the nativity play at school and had to carry baby Jesus - who was actually my favourite doll wrapped in a blanket. The cup is so hot it makes my palms tingle, but I won't drop it – not this special tea for Papa.

His coughing echoes down the hallway as I approach their bedroom. The curtains are drawn so tight it looks like night-time inside, even though it's only three in the afternoon.

"Papa..." I whisper into the darkness. A hoarse cough answers me. I tiptoe to his side of the bed, where the nightstand holds a mountain of tissues and medicine bottles.

"Papa... I made you tea," I whisper, trying to make my voice soft and warm like his. I do everything just the way he does when I'm sick: I smooth the blanket around him, careful not to spill. I push his hair back from his forehead like he does with mine, checking if he feels hot. My hand looks tiny against his face.

"With honey and lemon," I say in my best doctor voice – the one he uses when he gives me medicine, making me laugh even when my throat hurts. I hold the cup close to him.

He turns his head slowly on the pillow, and something's missing from his eyes. Usually, they sparkle like when he's about to tell one of his silly jokes, or when he's dancing with me in the kitchen while making buñuelos on Sunday mornings. He always makes them extra crispy, just how I like them, and puts on my favourite cartoons while the sugar and cinnamon mix fills our house with warmth.

"Gracias, my little princess," he whispers, but his voice doesn't do the funny voices he usually does when he pretends to be the characters in my bedtime stories.

I watch him drink the tea, every last drop, and wait for him to jump out of bed like he always does after his morning coffee, saying "¡Órale, a comenzar el día!" But he just closes his eyes and pats my hand softly.

Now, months later, the kitchen feels too big on Sunday mornings. The oil doesn't sizzle with buñuelos anymore. The TV doesn't play my cartoons. Sometimes, when I smell cinnamon, I turn around expecting to see Papa in his silly apron with the dancing tacos. I still save my best jokes for him – like the one about the tamale that went to school. He would have laughed at that one, I think. Really laughed, not like how Mama tries to laugh now, her smile wobbling at the edges like a broken piñata.

They say he went to heaven, but they didn't tell me if they have honey and chamomile tea up there.