Before Maria I ended my letter with an unintelligible scribble, simultaneously rounded and geometric all in one irregular movement. From the contents of my message, the intended signature not only further revealed my lacking practice of penmanship, but also appeared as a mere caricature at the bottom of the page, illustrating my mental state at the nature of this situation. It was a never ending flow of ink, rising and lowing from pen to page to page towards Rio Pedras for half a #lifetime, and I still had yet to get a response. Failing that, my epistolaries were not in vain. Never had I received a condolence nor notice of the death of the man I desired to contact. I kept that in mind. Embarrassed by my persistence, I folded the words, halved and halved again, fumbling it into an already used envelope I discovered earlier that morning. I sourly branded the back with a decorative capital "N" that I perfected over years and padded out into the driving sunlight. The slate dust and dirt track crunched beneath my feet, heat penetrating through the flimsy leather soles of my shoes. The breeze, peppered with pollen and sand picked up as it advanced towards the hills, pushing at the feathered hats of the palms and playing at the hibiscuses, teasing and lifting their hems at every lazy blow. It carried the chatter of the locals, advertising every anecdote, laugh and sale through the streets until they died at the fringe of the village where I now stood. Not once did I glance back for fear that attention would be drawn me. Whenever I left the town I had no other objective; I would walk one and two to the Pedras and pause for nothing that would lament my journey. In no less than a hundred yards I would be isolated amongst the land, both fertile and lonely all in an instant. A light crunching didn't marry up to my footsteps. Pointlessly I looked down, followed by a slight turn to the right where in my peripheral I spotted a flash of pink. "Go home, Anita." I continued to walk. "You are supposed to be with Papito today." "Not today." "Yes, today." Her voice was both aged Sienna and golden, the inhabitants of the island stirred at the first sign of daylight, yawningBy habit, the sienna and golden inhabitants of the island emerged at first light so as to fulfil their daily necessities. Sleepy headed and lulling the farmer would be to his crops. but now they moved and laughed with ease decorated in their shabby blues and reds and greens. their homes that held little porch nor second floor, but built with dexterity by the finest men of the town was that once named village.
