The house lies just at the outskirt of Valladolid on the Yucután peninsula in Mexico. It’s white with red pillars, a porch, two bedrooms and a garden big enough to fit a second house.
It’s mine for only one and a half month and after a couple of days I already wish we could be together for longer.
In the morning I stand on the porch and listen to the sound of the Mayan jungle, the insects and the birds I don’t know the names of and the stray dogs barking on the streets. The mornings are always cool and the humidity from the jungle and the afternoon sun has not yet arrived.
Sometimes when I make food I look out the kitchen window through the mosquito net and watch the caretakers of the house tend to the algarve plants and the citrus trees.
I cut the perfectly soft avocado that dropped from a tree in the garden of the café where I sometimes go to work, and listen to José and his father collecting leaves outside.
One day I’ll care for a house just like them.
At night I tiptoe out the door in my bedroom to the garden once it’s dark and swim among the fallen leaves in the cold water of the pool.
I think of this house years after I left. I speak enthusiastically about it with friends and write about it, but still the love I have for this house stays silently in my heart.