Two Years
The bed is still unmade. The pale blue sheets are paler still under the white mosquito nets. The light is washed and scented with earl grey tea and the faint voice of Julio Iglesias from somewhere deep in the trees, further still my nephews' are arguing who should take the cat out of the box. Outside the courtyard walls, everything is green and blue and waving and breaking along the edges with bougainvilla flowers. I haven't slept in the farm for two years. I don't care anymore that a giant jar of Skippy Creamy Peanut butter is sitting with the prints from Toledo. The curtains are washed and washed out. Everything has finally aged beyond their original flea market age. They have aged with me. The bed will remain unmade until sunset, there is no audience for my decorating skills. All is well in my room in the mountain.