It sounds like an ongoing massacre beneath me, high pitched hoarse screeching being emitted by a tiny Dachshund named Odie. He screams from the moment his human leaves the house until the moment she returns. I find solace in his persistence, a strange hopefulness in the fact that he doesn't give up his terrible howl. I think about how if I were him, I wouldn't emit a squeak but rather sit in silent horror awaiting her return, digging an escape route, drinking toilet water.
I sit on my porch at night, silently. My grandmother's shawl has many holes in it and I wrap it around my legs like the Bolivian ladies do. I like to imagine how it will be when the roads close and a houseful of strangers cuddles up together by the fireplace and the wind tears holes through our shitty walls. Out here, there are many photos of women out in fields with infants at their teats and a faraway look. I think, sadly, that I would not have been one of them.
I think about home but the idea seems nebulous. When I tell stories I confuse listeners with the geography involved. I wonder if I should just make stuff up. I wonder if I should use less curse words. I wonder if I should open up a corner store where I could sell Jamaican beef patties and large photographs.