Ciro and Emita
The hospedaje where we are staying is managed by a kind elderly couple, Ciro and Emita.
Ciro wears pirate pants every day--trousers that have been roughly trimmed into capris with a pair of scissors, then cut into big fringes all the way around. I know one else who has pants quite like this, and since Señor Ciro has three or four pairs, I'm curious to ask after the inspiration for his style. But I'm too shy, and afraid, perhaps, of a miscommunication that would hurt feelings.
Emita is a tiny little lady, who puts up with Ciro's off-color jokes and faithfully feeds her chickens each morning. She stands on the porch and calls them, a different call for the hens, for the rooster, and for the chicks, and then she stands there and laughs as she watches them eat their corn.
Emita sings all the time, dear little songs about children and heaven and how much she loves Jesus. I love her sweet, wavering voice, seldom on tune, cheering us through our day.
When I am old, I want to be just like that: singing songs and feeding my chickens.
Ciro and Emita are obsessive about sweeping their yard. They have a dirt yard with a fence that includes the two hospedake buildings, the outhouses, and the shower shed in its reaches. The fence also includes a handful of bread fruit trees, who are always shedding a half-orange, half-green leaf in the wind.
Down comes the leaf, and over to its resting place rushes Ciro or Emita, broom in hand, to sweep it up. They make tiny piles of these leaves, then burn them in the yeard. The smoke filters into our room and makes our eyes smart, or gives breakfast an odd flavor.
We missed them when they went on a trip to Pucallpa for a week. We have only known them a month, but they are an important part of our existence in Masisea.
Then they came back, and as Carly and I did paperwork, we listened to Emita sing a little song in the room next to ours.
"I'm glad she's back," said Carly.
Me too.
Ciro wears pirate pants every day--trousers that have been roughly trimmed into capris with a pair of scissors, then cut into big fringes all the way around. I know one else who has pants quite like this, and since Señor Ciro has three or four pairs, I'm curious to ask after the inspiration for his style. But I'm too shy, and afraid, perhaps, of a miscommunication that would hurt feelings.
Emita is a tiny little lady, who puts up with Ciro's off-color jokes and faithfully feeds her chickens each morning. She stands on the porch and calls them, a different call for the hens, for the rooster, and for the chicks, and then she stands there and laughs as she watches them eat their corn.
Emita sings all the time, dear little songs about children and heaven and how much she loves Jesus. I love her sweet, wavering voice, seldom on tune, cheering us through our day.
When I am old, I want to be just like that: singing songs and feeding my chickens.
Ciro and Emita are obsessive about sweeping their yard. They have a dirt yard with a fence that includes the two hospedake buildings, the outhouses, and the shower shed in its reaches. The fence also includes a handful of bread fruit trees, who are always shedding a half-orange, half-green leaf in the wind.
Down comes the leaf, and over to its resting place rushes Ciro or Emita, broom in hand, to sweep it up. They make tiny piles of these leaves, then burn them in the yeard. The smoke filters into our room and makes our eyes smart, or gives breakfast an odd flavor.
We missed them when they went on a trip to Pucallpa for a week. We have only known them a month, but they are an important part of our existence in Masisea.
Then they came back, and as Carly and I did paperwork, we listened to Emita sing a little song in the room next to ours.
"I'm glad she's back," said Carly.
Me too.
posted by Ansley at 12:26 PM
1 Comments:
Thank you for this wonderful sketch of Ciro and Emita.
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