Swimming towards August, we live in water. Just last night, a big blow created a lake in the downstairs terraza while tiny hail bounced off this sidewalk.
Years back I tended the yard — or the jardín as the locals call it.
But not now, if you don’t count the occasional pulling of a particularly arrogant weed, or taking clippers to a banana frond with the effrontery to block easy access. If toil involves getting on my knees, I normally ignore it.
I often think it would have been sharper to have bought less space, but then when it gets so pretty, my ideas go in the contrary direction.
As I write this, I’m eating a bowl of black beans over white rice.
It is midday, and I am alone because my child bride is with one of her brothers and his pregnant wife, who will soon drop a third child* into a family that can scarcely support the sons it already has.
The pile of them are at a three-story wooden cabin the brother owns atop a mountain in a village not far away, cleaning and scrubbing before putting the cabin on the market because they need money badly.
I dropped off my bride and some garden tools a couple of hours ago. It’s mostly the yard that needs tending, and I’m no good at that, as mentioned.
I’m more talented at eating black beans over rice with chopped onions.
Everyone is good at something.
* * * *
* A girl at last, we hope, so they will cease this lunacy.