Arrival to the Favela
Abia’s eyes plunged deep into the crystal waters below her, then settled on their surface. She gazed into the watery reflection of swirly mist circling the mountains she was leaving behind.
The whole way her mother spoke in tones of danger. Her voice floundered with uncertainty.
She clung to her children as if she were scared a vengeful wave would rise the side of the vessel and snatch one away.
Her words made Abia think in black and grey.
She mentally trudged through muddy water, scrounged through debris washed up in the waves of a regretful ocean. She picked up broken beech leaves inspected them for holes and then threw them back on the sand.
She knew they would have to make their own home, and from what she had been told, favela didn’t seem to Abia like a soil rich in olive branches. In fact, it did not seem like a place much fruitful of anything, edible or otherwise.
With the cita puerto (port) at least 2 sailing sunsets away, Abia planned in her mind how she would help her mother construct their shack.
© elenaxtina.com, 2015 in Skies over A Shanty Town