Her dress flowed red, lips rouged with a
wiggling golden fish around her neck. A traditional dance,
led simply by a child and her untouched partner.
After, she begged for a photograph, to show how
big her dress could spread; she held a serious face,
perhaps knowing she would never leave this place.
She eagerly took my hand and led me around the yard,
saying the names of fruits and giggling as I tried to repeat.
For a moment I thought of staying, of making
Quebrada Honda my home.
Secluded in the mountains, making unbleached sugar with
a horse-powered wheel, her family took me as a friend
for the afternoon. With a broken understanding, I learned to
pound the hulls of dried coffee, using a giant mortal and
pestle
I beat down to the bean. It was refreshing to see
the kindness of neighbors.
