Maria sat in bed entranced and incoherent. “Maria, Maria!” The call grew louder and clearer as it was repeated. Deep and slow, “Maria, Maria!” Following the sound, she wrapped a black knitted shawl around her shoulders to shield them from the frigid night’s wind. Winter made the earth dark, cold and dead; nothing grew here this time of year. Yet as she walked, driven on by the melodic incantation of her name, she noticed a guava tree standing tall, full and lush where only dry dirt laid before. She walked up to it, rubbing a leathery leaf, stroking it with her fingers. The tree was fruitless, blossomless. Only leaves, each a different shade of green, adorned its branches. The moonlight dimmed as it receded behind the mountains, giving way to Morning.

The first rays of sunlight shone on the tree. A white blossom appeared. Maria watched the blossom grow, dry and crumble, giving way to a fruit that swelled to the size of baseball. She gasped.

“Pick it,” the voice commanded.

Maria’s arms reached for it, barely within her grasp. As she held the fruit in her hands its color slowly changed from dark green to creamy yellow.

“Eat it!”

Instinctively, she complied. Juice dripped down her lips and neck as she bit into the flesh. Ravenously she ate it, having never tasted a fruit so sweet. Soon, only the pit was left. She discarded it on the floor and walked back to her bedroom to continue her sleep.

With each step her stomach grew, swelling like the fruit she had just consumed. Larger, rounder, harder; she could feel kicking within. She crawled into bed and lay, her eyes shut peacefully, awaiting the arrival of her son.