by Isabel Garcia-Gonzales

I know the path well by now. For eight months we have been meeting on this day, at this hour, in this place. It is typhoon season and the path has been washed away, but I do not need it anymore. I know the maze of the coconut grove, the angle of the mountain behind the treeline, the curve of the stones beneath my feet. I can pluck the sound of Artemio’s calling from the rest of the tree and bird and rain sounds like a pebble from unwashed rice. I know how to whistle back in response. (Read More)