Note to Reader: This story takes place in a lagoon village near San Juan, Puerto Rico. The village disappeared over sixty-five years ago; but the memories have not.
It is the church where I pray. It offers me solitude.
I am unaware of things outside of me.
It is my nature-land. I can feel the breezes that bring fresh air.
I can sit in contemplation.
It is the path to my redoubt. It leads to my home for protection.
It leads away from my home for protection.
It is my mode of production. It is my work-bench that no one else owns.
It is my mode of idleness.
It is my strength. It was the strength of my father’s father.
It reeks of corruption.
It is the place of yearly battles…
View original post 2,318 more words