Against the setting sun, cacti framed by flames
Beside hibiscus blooms open wide, giving their pollen away to the hummingbirds
Chickens squawking in yards filled with patchy grass and remnants of children’s toys
Down the hill, orange and brown specks that could be houses but
Easily look like brushstrokes, a painting
For sale at the art gallery in Alajuela
Grandparents, but not ours, tell us stories in Spanish
Help us understand by talking slowly and motioning with wrinkled hands
In the morning, a trip to the store on the corner where the road forks
Just us kids, sharing candy and holding up funny hats, giggling through aisles
Kicking the soccer ball that sprays up dew against our shins, avoiding the ants that sting ankles
Local mothers in work boots, faster than the varsity boys
Mango juice dripping down our chins, sickly sweet against our tongues
Napkins packed by host parents spread the stickiness
Over fingers and sunburnt faces, only to be washed off at the spigot in between water fights
Paint dries in the sun on the walls of the community center, sparkling green
Quiet is relative; here it means the constant sound of water rushing and someone singing
Rice and beans, fried plantains and and palm hearts fill our bellies as
Sunshine dries the mud into tiny canyons in the dirt road
That borders the rainforest, fends off vines that creep and monkeys that wake the town
Under the dense canopy, the air is heavy and the breeze sounds like a whisper
Vanilla and cacao, tasting bitter pulp and holding the seed between teeth
Wild dogs splash in waterfalls, perking up at the names they’ve been given
Xenia, a parting gift, a blood red flower woven into cloth, a physical reminder
Years later, will I remember this? Memories too magical to fade away
Zig-zagging, the bus pulls away and I look back, just for a second, before I turn back around