We drank tea on the terrace. The fluttering awning had yellow and white stripes.
I sleep in a bed under a quilt given to me by my aunt, who swims in the ocean every day at dawn. The ocean envelops her.
The fish jump around. There is the sun and sand and vigorous exercises with her friends. And then she goes home to make breakfast for her family.
Eggs. Salad. Her husband sits on a stool at the kitchen table wearing an undershirt embroidered by his mother (who is long gone and who used to sit on her terrace knitting striped socks), who may or may not have nursed a baby bear in her tiny village in Belarus.
This is the same village where my mother almost drowned in the river slouch. In that village there were dogs. And bread baked by the women. And shoes. And rooms that had to be swept. And the singing of songs. The lighting of candles. People lived. People died. Everything is part of everything.