Some houses carry too much sadness

Closed inside with the dust, antique furniture, old cat pee, and generations of artifacts was sadness. Sadness left to run its course scurrying across creaky wood floors through the cracks of ancient glass doors rattling white shutters flying up concrete stairs. Her brother died a year ago, and the huge apartment had been closed up since, but the decay stretched further back. When was the giant table that sat thirty moved out of the family house? When were some rooms closed off, the keepsakes of so many years stockpiled for posterity? Who lived here before this family that dominates the ancient, beautiful apartments of this old building? She had begun the long process of dismantling the family museum, painting, cleaning, clearing the immense house to rent it. The process is long, and the sadness a weight that presses upon a person the moment one enters the space. We carved out our sleeping space on old mattresses that lacked definition and I tried not give into my fear of ghosts. The bathroom light flickered and exploded leaving a burnt smell. By day we opened all the shutters to let the light in. Outside the world bustled, and the house sighed its thanks that some life was seeping in.

gracias

For the last three weeks the library has been a flurry of paper mache, acrylic paint, and multiple readings of La Caperucita Roja (little Red Riding Hood), Los Tres Cerditos (The Three Little Pigs), and Donde Viven Los Monstruos (Where the Wild Things Are). The regular library employee has been out, I have been up late sewing little clothes, and the kids have been so wild that I have walked out of the library twice to calm my nerves, the kids following me down the road saying “Señorita, no te vayas, ¿que paso?, vamos a escucharle…." and I have said as a mantra, I will be so glad when this is over.

Yesterday we presented their puppet show to the community, and only one parent came. Luckily other people from the community with whom I have forged connection showed up to give audience to their beautiful, funky, artistic puppets and their hard earned reading skills. By the end of the show, the kids were absolutely exhuberant- they were shining. As I thanked the community for receiving us, thanked the kids for participating and being good friends to Cameron and I, I started to get choked up. I could barely receive the thanks, hugs, and heart felt eye contact from the adults because some tightly wound part of my brain was starting to unwind filling my head with random thoughts and my insides with loss.

Bayron Jose, who lives next door to me, twelve years old, growing rapidly, starting high school next year, took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, “You are leaving. Don’t go, please.” Part of me has wanted to leave Zuleta from the day I got there, but now as I look at my final three days and know that I am going to say goodbye to my little amigitos with whom I have passed so much time reading, struggling, playing, getting angry, crying, laughing, picking up from falls (emotional and physical), helping with homework, riding bikes, hiking in the mountains my heart balks and I know that I am leaving something irreplaceable that may never come again for them or me. And I feel so grateful for all of it.

As it is, the local worker is getting fired, and the library is closing until they find someone else. There are no volunteers coming again until late June. I hope so much that this wasn't just a brief bright spot, because as we leave it is ever more apparent that the library plays an important function for many of these kids. I hate to think all this work has no future. There is here such opportunity for growth, both for the children, and for those who come to be part of their world.

My dark friend

I make my first cup of coffee in two weeks. The smell of the coffee, harvested from Ecuador, roasted and ground in a small wooden shop in Quito, rises strongly from the jar when I twist off the lid. I fill the metal receptacle of the italian espresso maker with water, and set the whole apparatus on the propane stove and wait for the steam to rise from the spout. When ready, I pour the black liquid into the Holstein Ecuador mug and add cream: thick, almost oily, sweet. I give a nod to the cows that I can see grazing the startlingly green grass from my window as this cream came from their udders (udders that sway as they walk, slicking the cobbles with their green grassy shit that stains my pants and flies up when I ride my bicycle). I sit in a wooden chair and face the sea off small windows framed by blue window panes that looks out on our mud walls, overgrown lawn, hummingbird tree, and further to fields and mountains. I sip my strong coffee and sigh in relief at the familiar taste, then turn my attention back to my book I am reading: Chasing Che: A Motorcycle Journey in Search of the Guevara Legend, quite an excellent read with ponderings on the general history of Latin America and the mythology surrounding Ernesto “Che” Gueverra. For one more week this is my home, my table, my view, and then? We leave it to the next ones and begin a long meandering journey home.