Coffee for the Dead

On the first morning of the harvest, the Restrepos lay the long table on the terrace of the farm in Caldas and set a place for everyone, including those taken by the violence decades ago. It is a ritual. Nobody expects anything from it, which is what makes it bearable.

This year, as the mist lifts off the coffee rows, the empty chairs start to fill. An uncle. Two cousins. A grandmother who died before half the people at the table were born, and who wants to know why the east field has been left to go wild.

The living have until the mist burns off to work out what to say. Some of them have been rehearsing for thirty years and find that they cannot. One of them says the wrong thing immediately and has to live with it. Nobody at the table mentions how anyone died.