#NewThisDay Writing From My Photo Stream

At the entrance to Playa Palada

. . . In the meantime, most heroes have died.

The sky unfolds, as bitter as it is in Gogol’s novellas.

Echoing, the singing of people who gather the harvest.

Echoing, the music of those who cart stones from the field.

Echoing, it doesn’t stop.

Excerpt from [So I’ll talk about it] by Serhiy Zhadan and translated by John Hennessy and Ostap Kin

Early awake, we sit outdoors in the warm air by the quiet pool. I check the news, which is terrible, about Ukraine. I decide not to walk right away, but to spend the morning time with Frank, whose shoulder is sore, so he’s not playing tennis. We go out for coffee at the nearby French bakery and relax at an outdoor table. Then, we go the beach and watch the early surfers from a bit of shade. We are winding down. We are having our lasts, or next to lasts, of everything. We go back to the casa––he has phone call, and I have two clients scheduled, but for various reasons, I end up doing my own work—submitting poems to journals. Soon enough it is noon, early afternoon, and in the heat of the day, that’s when I take my walk. I go by foot through the jungle path to South Guiones into the shops I’ve already looked into. I want something for my daughters. Still, no luck. I walk the dirt roads and another path to North Guiones, and after a few more shops I find some t-shirts that will do. Off to the beach for the rest of my walk; by now the sun is blistering hot, but I don’t mind, as I kick through the surf. Tonight, our friend who is staying with us takes us all out to dinner, a festive evening in North Guiones, an early evening a walk after dinner on the hot and dusty street with all the children and grown ups crowding restaurants and shops, the noise of the motorbikes and the cheerful chatter of people enjoying themselves after a day of sun and surfing. We get a Facetime from home: the Special One is holding Frank’s winter hat and spare tennis racket. We are wanted back home. How lucky we are.