“You have no seasons in that small island of yours,” she
says, with a smile that stinks of nurtured ignorance and mirth-rich malice.
“That’s why you people flee to our lands, searching for more, wanting better,
needing our green springs and the vivid oranges of our falls. So
For a fiery moment, her nasty thoughts threaten to shroud my
tongue. But I magic the flames into a knowing grin--I won’t let your rot poison my words--and I speak my truth, instead:
“In my small island, autumn sleeps in the reds of the coffee cherry. We stir it
awake with our fingers, berry by berry, until our baskets are full of warming
cups. We drink October all year long. And so could you. But the taste buds of
your spirit are dead, and you fail to notice. So very sad.”
photo by Ante Samarzija, on Unsplash
- one of my favorite things about October, while growing up in the Dominican Republic, was the beginning of the coffee harvest. Most of my relatives and some hired hands would come home, to my grandmother’s house, and pick coffee beans. The work was exhausting, but the songs, the food, and the company made it wonderful.
- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #97: October!