Not From Here, Not From There

Brazil

The farm house in Brazil sat above the valley with the lake with the fish, but below the hill. It was next to the eucalyptus forest, the farm house the color of my mother's flan. Next to it, there's a mossy garden where awapuhi grows wild. In the valley, the potatoes from last years harvest were hidden in the dirt.

For breakfast each morning, mangoes and papaya, served with yellow bread to make little sandwiches with meat and cheese. Maybe some butter. Years of cutting a mango, perfectly practiced, no flesh left on the seed.

The day's laundry would be hung up outside, to be dried by the wind and sanitized by the sun. The windows of the farmhouse placed just so, ensuring that a breeze from one end of the house would create a tunnel effect and cool the space without modern air conditioning. 

The meals blended into each other. Breakfast turning into cleaning the dishes, turning into lunch, turning into cleaning the dishes, turning into dinner. 

At night, the sky is so dark that the stars seem to be infinite. The moon is the only thing illuminating the trees and the farmhouse. 

New York

A childhood filled with my Latin family dotted across the five boroughs. Lots of Linda's - all of the girl cousins called by the same name, Linda. Not a name at all, instead, the same pet name for each, calling us beautiful. Coisa mais linda, the most beautiful. And it's true; each Brazilian girl is the most beautiful. 

Childhood of bom boms: a staple at every party, family gathering, holiday, and event worth celebrating.  Decadent giant chocolate balls wrapped in pink metallic paper, the crinkle of the wrapper was the same as the sound of plastic covered New York Public Library books.

The specific snap and chew of the Chiclet gums from the corner store. My older brother teasing me that my teeth look like the white chiclets.

Florida

I say coisa mais linda to my little one because it was always said to me. My aunt still calls me Linda sometimes. 

Many pairs of Havaianas, no other brand. A staple in Brazil; the mark of a Brazilian in Florida. Who needs ten pairs of the same flip flop but in various colors? It just happens that way. 

Today I live in a house the color of flan. A hammock in the backyard surrounded by wind chimes. The hammock a bright blue, unspoiled by years of the suns cruel bleaching. Sometimes a wind comes through, the sun warm on my skin but the breeze is cool, and the humidity mild like in Brazil. If I close my eyes while in the hammock, I can almost transport myself to the farm, where a house the color of flan sits. 

It feels like Brazil here sometimes. When I wake up with the sunrise. The sounds of the birds chirping the only thing I hear. The feeling of a slight headache, it's so early. As if jet lagged, the first morning on the farm after a long time away.