Green, your patch of new lawn. Green, Vicente’s small T-shirt as he pulls at handsful of my hair, fresh green, each effort to capture my glasses, sturdy green, his plastic frog. Green slips in, cool and vinegary, with the sound of “chili” – how Ignacio says “Chile” was pronounced when first he came to Canada; a bad-ass mohawked kid, he'd go skipping class at Jarvis. Green drapes the mint in Taibe’s couscous; my elegant friend, you surprise me, drinking short Guinnesses, liking your chicken toasty. Grape green, the foothills of the starry Elqui mountains, where the vines for pisco grow. Salud.
Panorama of the Elqui Mountains by Fer Quintana.
Panorama of the Elqui Mountains by Fer Quintana.
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