The old men sat in the shade of the ancient olive trees avoiding the late afternoon sun. Long silences interspersed with old stories, latest news and shared history.
Strangers appeared as small dots in the distance following the rough track from out of the hillside. A ragged bunch clutching their meagre possessions in ill-assorted, mismatched bags. A little money, bottles of warm water, nuts, berries and old dry stale bread with melting cheese. Broken shoes held together with pink plastic; dusty, dirty, sweaty.
They reached the locals and formal greetings were exchanged !hola! !tardes! Both wanting to ask more; “Why are you here?”, “Where did you come from?”, “Tell me about the land.” A nod, a shy smile and they moved on hoping to find shelter.
The old men sat in the shade of the ancient olive trees as the sun slipped down. In this insular, closed, yet welcoming society, centred on family they shared one question.
¿Who is the mother?
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About Us
- Fuente Writers
- we are separate we are visitors we are aliens we are foreigners we are under the surface of something we are different we are not drowning we are not understanding we are here we are telling lies we are making stuff up we are enjoying being ridiculous we are talking we are hesitantly speaking Spanish we are sharing thoughts and ideas we are reflecting we are writing we are memories we are seeking the truth we are observing we are watching you drinking, watching you smiling sharing your intoxication we are watching the shiny muscled horses we are watching geckos on a white washed wall we are watching something that might not be there we are on a journey with many intersections we are walking we are stepping through the door of avid beauty we are walking through winding streets in the midday sun we are strong we are exploring
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