Nearly 5 p.m. and my brother relieves me of mom’s care.
I walk up and down the guesthouse’s mountain for an hour – a well-worn, daily path through avocado and mango groves, past black bees that get tangled in hair.
A rainbow rises in the distance. Saffron finches hop between trees, loud toucans cross the sky. Clouds shaped like long motherships point and say: “we follow your silence”. Right place, right time.
Then a descent past white flowers blooming in the bog where rattlesnakes breed. My beloved Paçoca was found bloated underneath nearby ferns that spill over the guesthouse’s front staircase.
Caring for a parent: the ultimate warm heart. Somehow I recall that you moved to South America to do this? Do I misremember that, Ollie? In any case, a beautiful, brief and poetic write here that other should indeed read.