The notification arrived on my phone and, suddenly, thousands of memories began to flutter around me. Also a couple of tears. It all started that distant Saturday afternoon, when Adriana sent me that video. There she was, Olimpia, sharing her experiences, and, suddenly, I returned to a time I thought was much further away.
I remembered the weekends. Some Saturdays, after working all Friday night, my mother would leave two euros on the table with a note: "Bring churros from Teyo and Aya, take out the trash, and don't make too much noise."
The week had been exhausting for both of us. For her, because of work; for me, because of that school routine that marked my knees. However, those days held something special. And talking with Olimpia was one of those little things that made them magical.
She always told me her stories in that kitchen that overlooked the rofe. I would ask her about Mila and she, calmly, would tell me she was at the center or that she was feeling a little sick. Then, when it was time for me to leave, there was always a hug, a kiss, and those candies she kept in a small cupboard. Sometimes they were in a transparent container; other times, in the bag itself. They were anise or milk flavored. I still remember those flavors.
I gave them to everyone. They were not a privilege or a secret shared with me, but a small custom that was part of her way of welcoming those who passed through her house. Back then, I didn't stop to think about it. I was a child and, simply, that was Olimpia: the neighbor who had stories to tell and candies to offer before it was time to go back out on the street.
Her name, actually, is María Teresa, although almost everyone knows her as Olimpia. The nickname was born from a family whim: her grandmother used to say that there were many María Teresas, but there were no Olimpia's. Over the years, that name ended up becoming part of her identity, like so many stories that pass from one generation to another and end up becoming part of family memory.
But, upon hearing her talk about her life, I understood that behind that name there was much more than an anecdote. There was a woman who started working as a child, who had to leave school to help with farm work and who dedicated a good part of her life to supporting her family. A woman whose story also speaks of a generation of women who took on enormous responsibilities when they were still girls and who learned to move forward because, often, there was no other option.
Olimpia is presented as a warrior, and there are reasons for doing so. Her life is marked by work, sacrifices, and difficulties. But I also want to focus on the woman behind that word. On my neighbor. On the one who received me in her kitchen, answered my questions, and shared with me those little stories that, without knowing it, would end up accompanying me so many years later.
Because sometimes we talk about people for what they were capable of overcoming, but we forget to focus on what they offered to others while doing so. On the homes they kept open, on the moments they gave, on the concern for those close to them. On those daily cares that rarely appear in grand narratives, even though they also sustain a community.
Perhaps as a child I didn't understand the difficulties Olimpia had gone through or all that her life entailed. I just knew that I could go into my neighbor's house, listen to her, and feel comfortable. I didn't need to know her whole story to keep a fond memory of her.
Now, looking back, I understand that I was also getting to know another form of strength. Not only that of enduring, working, and supporting a family, but that of preserving a space for others amidst the daily obligations.
That's why, when I think of Olimpia, I don't want to remember only the warrior everyone talks about. I want to remember María Teresa, my neighbor; the woman who had a small cupboard full of anise and milk candies and who offered them to those who passed by her house. The one who perhaps never imagined that such simple gestures would end up occupying such an important place in a child's memory.
In the end, there are memories that seem insignificant until they return many years later and reveal how much they meant. A kitchen facing the rofe, a conversation, a hug, and some candies before leaving.
Sometimes, to tell a woman's story, it's enough to start with what she never thought anyone would remember.
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