When I open the door, my little home smells like oranges, and I realize one is withering in the bowl on my kitchen table. Not so good there, Misha.
For a moment, I consider cloves, remembering the Christmas sachets we made in Girl Scouts. At the time, it felt so old-fashioned, so pioneer.
I look at my little one-room house--not pioneer, not frontier, but certainly rustic. I pitch the orange into the compost can, wince at the waste, and then I pour some water out of the jug and start a pot of beans. Next year, maybe I'll plant some squash.
Everything feels small, so I look out the window over the sink, up the hill. Otherwise, I feel like pacing. I don't have enough room to pace. A long walk would be good, but I just got here. I can feel all my edges now.
Saverio was not at the market this weekend. And why should he be. He's probably back in Santiago, his story about Ushuaia vacations already published and read.
I knew that, but knowing isn't everything.