I am slow. Since I am a kid it takes me time; I used to sit and look at the ants for hours while my grandpa collected coffee beans. What is going on? I ask myself constantly; the coffee island, as you called it, is a time machine; today I turned 10. I was in the coffee field all day, looking at three humans collecting beans, not only contemplating them but also collecting; images. It was a 10-year-old me, looking through a camera, at three ants working. I fell, I rolled, I ate an orange or two, I laughed, I run, I was sad. I am slow, it takes me time—this is sad. I wanted to turn and see my grand pa and say that I am sorry, that I Iove him and that I admire him, that I am slow, that it took me 43 years to realize something that is impossible to express with words, even less with words that are not mine, because either English or Spanish were not his nor my languages. I was ten but he was not there, and I wanted him to be, for me, for my sister for my mom, for all of us. I am alive and I am afraid and I am not afraid of saying it. This is sad because I was 10 and had to think about his death again, about his heart growing and he dying. I am alive, and this makes me happy; I don’t want to be afraid of being happy. Tomorrow I will be 10 again and I will be in the coffee field again, I will probably feel sad again, but will be happy too, with the smells, the sounds, the colours, and the textures that have always being the essence of life. Tomorrow the moon will be there as well, and the sun will be there too, but they will not encounter each other, they will not touch, maybe not in this life time.
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