Let Us Keep Count
Strange place to be,
sleep settles into spurts.
My sharp staccato,
a Spanish tendency continues.
Time beyond these walls
incomprehensible.
We keep count
reminding each other,
not of better times,
just of impermanence.
Tana, capital city
One Evening in Madagascar
Sweet flute music is playing, Sitraka is in the kitchen with her mother cooking, I am swimming in language books, notes, and very overwhelmed.
Some windows only have screens, the outward doors are unlatched. Yes, it’s cold. These are the Highlands of Madagascar. Rice patties interspersed with canals and a mélange of farm animals, mostly cows and poultry, are included in the patchwork. Homesteads hug the roadways, much like rural France where families live in accordance with their livelihoods.
The flute floats across the valley, lovely to the ear yet the reason for the performance may shock some not accustomed to such proximity to death. My family is not involved with this ancient Malagasy tradition, turning of the bones They don’t entertain these live performances to help pass the long damp winter. My wish will be to fall asleep to that sweet music tonight.
