Last month the bulldozers started moving earth and reshaping the landscape at the Palmerola site selected for the country’s new international airport. A site where both the Honduran Air Force trains its flight cadets and the US military maintains a presence. Visible from the front porch of my new home at night the Comayagua Valley floor reflects a long string of city and highway lights flanking the present airplane landing runway, a beautiful view indeed. Once the new airport is operational I will be able to board international flights 20 minutes from where I live. Quite nice indeed.
She died holding the dinner plate in her hand when she answered a knock at the door. The cowards fired seventeen bullets into her body then jumped onto their moto for a clean escape. The sub-directora of a high school in Comayagua, preparing to move into a new house with her four children, had been assassinated in cold blood the night before: that was the news on everyone’s lips as we arrived in San Sebastian for my friend’s grandmother’s birthday. It was also Feria Week and a three-day holiday, featuring a bullfight, had attracted thousands. Carnival rides, fireworks and food stands stood crowded by happy, hungry clients. A nonstop party prepared to unfold.
On February 1st I will be moving into a new home. Days recently spent personally painting every room is a reminder of not enough exercise: move those muscles, more veggies and fruit. That’s what my VA doc says. Will do. After painting I still have to pack up and move all my shit.
I will be traveling to Seattle next Monday and won’t return to La Paz until December 15th.
My friend Celeste taught and ushered our catechism class’s four children from the Barrio Jerusalén into the sacrament of the First Communion at the Iglesia de Espiritu Santo. My gift to each of them will be the 40 photographs I took commemorating the event recorded onto a CD so that in the years to come they can pop the CD into the DVD player and the children can see themselves on the day they were accepted into the ancient traditions of the church. The same traditions I entered into so many years ago and which I have never forgotten. The sacrament of Confirmation is the next step. I will be there. To my late Mom, thank you. I owe you. Every week when I walk into church for mass I know you are at my side: Te amo.