Our white wagon had just pulled up and we were in the deep middle of the estate. The birds’ chirping was constant but gentle. I remember the rustling of the trees and the tiny creatures that lurked.
I asked, “What is it you grow out here?”
“Timber, rough lemons and we’re trying out some plantain.” You responded as if you had the answer all planned out and ready to release.
I looked up and witnessed the towering immortelle trees, I even saw the cumulus clouds and their precise but soft outlines that stood in contrast to the azure sky. Out there the clouds looked almost exact to the ones you would make with cotton balls. They were white and had so much volume, but most importantly perfect.
“How can one find time to be sad out here?” I asked, when really what I wanted to say was,
How come you relapsed? Out here was like a little touch of Heaven, yet still, you chose Hell.