The roosters squawk, creating a canon song. An elder woman wearing a traditional huipil dress sits in a chair eating a mango and her granddaughter sits besides her, eating a coconut. A man reaches into a tree with a giant fruit-picker while his son waits expectantly to catch the guayaba as it falls to the ground. A woman waters plants. The almond-shaped leaves of the avocado tree sway slightly in the warm morning breeze. Spanish words bounce back and forth among the people in different positions on the back patio.
A girl of almost nineteen years sits at a table on the balcony of the hotel restaurant, observing this scene from below, imagining how peaceful life would be with these vivid colors, these bright sounds, and these friendly people surrounding her every day. A sense of community every morning, with one’s entire family gathered around a table now eating breakfast together in the gentle glow of the morning sun. Grandmothers, fathers, mothers, children, aunts, uncles, cousins, chickens. Now, birds chirp, singing songs in all different octaves. This place has become home to her, however, even if this family doesn’t speak her native language and they don’t share the same blood. The sounds of their voices have become familiar, their faces have become comforting. The songs of the birds and the squawks of the roosters have become a soundtrack to her life.