the kitchen table raised me, how to eat mito ( fried tilipia napo dish) understanding the complications of life in the rainforest. In the day I looked out at the gaps of the wood and tin roof where the tropical trees swayed; where children’s laughter and screaming voices echoed into neighboring houses.. That kitchen table was never empty, we all had our puestos. mine across from my father we never really talked that much we granted miscommunicated so laughter of clumsy “shakki” made us,bond. our last embrace happened in the kitchen table. Tears and hugs only came, didnt need to fall.. I fell too many times that year.
Where four year old “Sumako” screams and scooby doo howels from 19 year old uncles erupt soup from noses, where arroz y platano brighten up Joyclean day.
That last day tears soaked that kitchen table, from which I grown up on through the 8 months of “hot ass soup in that hot hot ass sun” where I miss.