There comes a time when every story must be heard. For Steve and me, that time is now. We’ve spent some years now trying to hear, to discern. This time seems like kairos.+ + + + +
An unremarkable day. I slept badly again, and am headachy and tired as I write at sundown, when nice breezes blow from the sea at the end of a very hot and dry day.
In the morning, we walked around the school’s track and up and down the hill behind the monastery bakery. Then at 1 P.M. our student Patricia S. picked us up for dinner at her house, where we had cracked conch, crab salad, fired chicken, green salad, sliced tomatoes, mixed vegetables, peas and rice, and canned peaches for dessert.
After dinner Patricia’s father Wilton drove us around the city, and then back just in time for the monastic supper—lamb chops stewed with onion, tomato, and bell pepper, cole slaw, boiled fish, cauliflower and cheese, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and wine. Not sure, but this may be a feast for Ascension Day, since Ascension is celebrated on Sunday here, and it’s Saturday evening.
And then wild dreams of being chased by my Aunt Billie, who wanted to draw blood from my veins. I flew away from her, discarding clunky black shoes and keeping my red silk slippers instead . . . .
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