Everything At Stake

Here I am, once again, everything at stake, clouded in tears and suppressed anger. Pitching a hushed fit since I cannot for the life of me figure out where to go from here. Without direct contact with my usually reliable friends and concrete plans for tomorrow, I am devoid of options. Where is the opening I can eek into? Silence is steadily claiming my life along with greedy mosquitoes. Feel as though a train wreck lesson is hurling forward in my path at rapid speed and me without a leg to stand on!

One reader commented, “Sounds like you are having a great time!” Hm, guess that is one way of looking at it.

Finally my box (still have yet to receive yours Angela) planted itself in Ana’s Caixa Postal. Imagine my delight as I reserve my joyous anticipation in attempt to pry open the package gifted to me by Judy. A fountain pen nearly snaps in half, the hair clip doesn’t suffice so I hurdle along through the tiled house to snatch a steak knife. Thank you, thank you, muito obrigada! I have a new selection of reading material and goodies to gobble. Took two and a half weeks to arrive.

Dario’s evil streak screeches the metal-based chair back and forth so inherently indicative of their disquieting relationship. Ana’s head jerks in abhorrence reaction which is exactly what Dario counts on with his second grade charm behavior. Top of the food pyramid beer devours the frig. An elephant in the living room meat dish consumes the yellow table with a satisfying plate of plain sticky white rice to appease the vegetarian in the house. What’s a girl to do but divide the stash of chocolate from her delightful aunt who has generously shared delicious vices gained from father’s side of the family.

An invisible man arrives to who park himself behind the pillar while sincerely exploring his financial acumen or lackthereof with Dario. I suspect it is the familiar chicken killer from the neat farm down the road who owes a substantial amount to the sitio. He materializes thin as a chop stick clown jeans drooping from his hips as he jerks them in indifference though puffs of disbelieving smoke curl from his lips. His topless sinewy frame is clean and athletic from chasing the fowl around the butcher’s yard prior to sacrificing them. He is risky business handsome as he gestures his arms in confidence and clearly trouble with self-assured floppy untied gray tennis shoes. Sun glasses tip on the crown of his head to shake a stick at the low impenetrable clouds in the opulent sky. Another voice babbles incoherently from the opposite side of the verandah. Husky, petite, tall, bulky, shoeless or not stimulates my vivid imagination. Shy and hesitant to present myself and explain my existence is more than I can tolerate now. They barrel off with a loud unmaintained muffler. Dario’s empty pocket amiability will be the demise of the farm.

Air calm and dense from a mid-morning rain while near damp clothes glare from the feeble line to settle down for days on end without the desired result. Accustomed to the chortle from the roosters and chirping birds the sounds escape me until I consider my next line of prose. How will it be in the bustling city with cars, endless people on the streets and burble from neighboring windows once I depart from the farm? How many nights must I toss and turn with the disorienting urban clamor? If and when that occurs!

Marquinhos turns up with two bags of churrasco (bbq flavored) thin moon-shaped chips. His mother insisted I have them. We munched in silence each with our own thoughts of brilliant escape. He inevitably took a few pics of himself before announcing it is time for café de tarde (afternoon snack) and off he marched. I adore the fun-filled time with this chatty and exuberant nine year old.  He is truly the son of his likeable mother always cheerful and ceaselessly grinning from ear to ear. Pieces, the two of them. Figures.