Her happiness was short-lived.(Esp. Ing)-Creative NonFiction The ink well Prompt #39
Published on HivePostify by @rammargarita · Sun Jul 05 2026
After finishing my studies in the 1970s, I began working at the Colegio República Argentina as a library assistant. By then, I was already married. There, I became friends with several teachers, including Celina Martínez, a very good and caring teacher. A bond was forged between us—one that was both of friendship and of a mental nature.
To my children, she is Aunt Celina. She wasn't lucky in love; after many failed relationships, she found a brief, fleeting happiness. She didn't have any children of her own, but she adopted and raised her father's two daughters—Sarita and Teresa—and also educated them. Both have bachelor's degrees in economics.
Her house was designed in the country-style, with a very spacious patio, five bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a dining room. There was a porch attached to the house; two wicker chairs hung from the ceiling, and there were two wrought-iron rocking chairs. It also had a garden with red, white, and yellow roses; it was located on Córdoba Avenue in the city of Cumaná, Sucre State, Venezuela.
The monument is located at the last intersection of this avenue, where it crosses Perimetral Avenue; the structure and its roof are made of reinforced concrete; atop it stands the statue of Bartolomé de las Casas, with a Native American figure beside him. There is a library there with historical documents; in front of it lies the sea with its crystal-clear waters, whose waves, stirred by the wind, dance like white streamers.
Celina was more than a friend to me—she was like a sister; together we shared moments of trust, closeness, sadness, and happiness. I remember many stories about her, especially one that really makes me laugh.
One day, that teacher was in her classroom with her students. I walked over and noticed two lice crawling on a student’s white shirt. I motioned to the teacher, Celina; she went over to the girl and asked, “Does your mom comb your hair?” Very embarrassed, the girl replied:
Source from [pixabay](https://pixabay.com/es/illustrations/ai-generado-escuela-primaria-8659303/)
“No!” and started crying. Celina continued with her lesson as if nothing had happened.
The next day, in the classroom, Celina took the girl by the arm and led her to the school bathroom, washed her hair with shampoo, then returned with her to the classroom, cut her hair, applied a product called “Juan powder,” and then covered her hair with the small towel she had brought; in half an hour, she combed through her hair with a small ivory comb and removed all the lice.
The next day, the girl’s mother went to the school office and complained to the principal about the teacher’s treatment of her daughter. The woman took her daughter home, very upset, and shouted:
“I won’t bring her to school anymore!” The principal tried to persuade her, but it was all in vain.
On the first day of the week, the principal sent the security guard to call Celina to come to the principal’s office. Celina stopped by the library so I could go with her, because she had a feeling she might be fired. I told her:
“Calm down, everything’s going to be okay.” We arrived at the principal’s office and greeted the principal, Luis Aparicio; Celina’s face was as white as a sheet, and she fell silent; I took the initiative and spoke up:
“What’s going on with this teacher? As far as I know, she hasn’t done anything wrong.” “That’s true,” replied the principal; a bit slyly, he turned to Celina and asked her: “
“Where did you take your hairdressing course? That haircut on that girl looks just like Christopher Columbus’s.” We burst out laughing. Then the principal added:
“That mother, instead of being grateful for the haircut you gave her daughter, got upset.
“As I was leaving the principal’s office, she said to me, ‘Thank you, sister, for having met you at this school.’” I replied cheerfully:
“Don’t thank me—you’ll always have someone in me who’ll support you through the good times and the bad!”
There was a mental connection between us. On Friday night, I couldn’t fall asleep; all I could think about was Celina. I asked myself, “Could she be sick?” It wasn’t until 4 a.m. that I finally fell asleep.
At 6 a.m. on Saturday, Celina called me on my cell phone; Crying, I asked her:
“What’s wrong?” She replied, very distressed: “Sarita didn’t eat or drink anything all day yesterday!” Very calmly, I replied:
“Be patient—I’ll be at your house in half an hour!” I got ready right away and arrived at Celina’s house in no time. When she saw me, she burst into tears; her eyes filled with tears that streamed down her cheeks, like the water cascading down Angel Falls. I comforted her. Then I went to Sarita’s room; she wouldn’t open her eyes. I approached her, took her hands, and said:
“Please, wake up!” When she looked at me, she began to shed tears; gently, I added:
“Tell me the truth—what’s your grade point average for this semester?” Very embarrassed, she replied:
“That’s bad—way too low. I feel so sorry for Celina.” I went to the kitchen where my friend was and asked her:
“What would you prefer—to be told that your daughter has terminal cancer?” I took a deep breath, exhaled immediately, and then continued:
“Or would you rather Sarita have done poorly this semester?” She replied, “I’d prefer the second option.” Very happy, I hugged her and added, “That’s exactly what’s happening to her.” Celina called her over and said, “You could have told me that without feeling bad.” We were all happy, and then we went to the dining room for lunch.
Several years later, her daughters got married and moved out on their own. Left alone at the age of 57, after so many romantic disappointments, Celina met a 65-year-old engineer. A bond of mutual love developed between them; shortly thereafter, they married and lived happily for two years.
A few days later, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, which confined her to bed for a year. Enrique, her husband, treated her exceptionally well; shortly thereafter, she died.
A year later, her husband sold the house. The buyer converted it into a shopping center, stripping it of its original facade, and the furniture that hung from the ceiling and the iron rocking chairs disappeared along with the garden of multicolored roses.
I still remember her stories, her advice, and the way our minds connected. I miss her presence. May God always be with her, bless her, and protect her on her journey through eternity.
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Su felicidad duró poco
Tras terminar mis estudios en la década de los 70, empecé a trabajar en el Colegio República Argentina como ayudante de biblioteca. Por entonces, ya estaba casada. Allí entablé relaciones de amistad con varios profesores, entre ellos Celina Martínez, una profesora muy buena y cariñosa. Se forjó un vínculo entre nosotros: tanto de amistad como de naturaleza mental.
Para mis hijos, ella es la tía Celina. No tuvo suerte en el amor; tras muchas relaciones fallidas, encontró una felicidad breve. No tuvo hijos propios, pero adoptó y crió a las dos hijas de su padre —Sarita y Teresa— y también se encargó de su educación. Ambas son licenciadas en Economía.
Su casa estaba diseñada al estilo rústico, con un patio muy espacioso, cinco dormitorios, un salón, una cocina y un comedor. Había un porche adosado a la casa; del techo colgaban dos sillas de mimbre y había dos mecedoras de hierro forjado. También tenía un jardín con rosas rojas, blancas y amarillas; estaba situada en la avenida Córdoba, en la ciudad de Cumaná, estado de Sucre, Venezuela.
El monumento se encuentra en el último cruce de esta avenida, donde se cruza con la Avenida Perimetral; la estructura y su cubierta son de hormigón armado; en lo alto se alza la estatua de Bartolomé de las Casas, con una figura indígena a su lado. Allí hay una biblioteca con documentos históricos; frente a ella se extiende el mar con sus aguas cristalinas, cuyas olas, agitadas por el viento, bailan como serpentinas blancas.
Celina era más que una amiga para mí: era como una hermana; juntas compartimos momentos de confianza, cercanía, tristeza y felicidad. Recuerdo muchas anécdotas sobre ella, sobre todo una que me hace mucha gracia.
Un día, aquella profesora estaba en su clase con sus alumnas. Me acerqué y vi dos piojos trepando por la camisa blanca de una alumna. Le hice una señal a la profesora, Celina; ella se acercó a la niña y le preguntó: «¿Tu madre te peina el pelo?». Muy avergonzada, la niña respondió:
«¡No!», y se echó a llorar. Celina continuó con su clase como si nada hubiera pasado.
Al día siguiente, en el aula, Celina cogió a la niña del brazo y la llevó al baño del colegio, le lavó el pelo con champú, luego volvió con ella al aula, le cortó el pelo, le aplicó un producto llamado «polvo de Juan» y, a continuación, le cubrió el pelo con la toallita que había traído; en media hora, le peinó el pelo con un pequeño peine de marfil y le quitó todos los piojos.
Un día después, la madre de la niña acudió a la secretaría del colegio y se quejó al director por el trato que la profesora había dispensado a su hija. La mujer se llevó a su hija a casa, muy enfadada, y gritó:
«¡No la volveré a traer al colegio!». El director intentó convencerla, pero fue en vano.
El primer día de la semana, el director envió al guardia de seguridad a llamar a Celina para que fuera a su despacho. Celina se pasó por la biblioteca para que yo pudiera acompañarla, porque tenía la sensación de que quizá la fueran a despedir. Le dije:
«Tranquila, todo va a salir bien». Llegamos al despacho del director y saludamos al director, Luis Aparicio; Celina estaba pálida como un paño y se quedó en silencio; tomé la iniciativa y hablé:
«¿Qué le pasa a esta profesora? Por lo que yo sé, no ha hecho nada malo». «Es verdad», respondió el director; con un aire un poco pícaro, se volvió hacia Celina y le preguntó: «
«¿Dónde hiciste el curso de peluquería? El corte de pelo de esa niña se parece mucho al de Cristóbal Colón». Nos echamos a reír. Entonces, el director añadió:
«Esa madre, en lugar de estar agradecida por el corte de pelo que le hiciste a su hija, se enfadó.
«Cuando salía del despacho del director, me dijo: “Gracias, hermana, por haberte conocido en este colegio”». Yo respondí alegremente:
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