Lucy was patient
with us even when the milk and sugar ran out, and the only drink we
could offer was water. She still looked lovingly into our eyes, not a
bit less dedicated to us with all the affection she could muster.
For half of her
eight years, Lucy lived joyfully off the abundant scraps from our
table. I should point out that our table is rather gigantic, owing to
its prime place in our family’s lives, a hub for sharing, dreaming,
scheming with friends and visitors from near and far. Lucky for Lucy,
this habit provided her with a steady stream of nutritious scraps.
Slowly, though, as
Venezuela’s crisis deepened, the food and the gatherings and the
celebrating began to disappear. And with it, the left-overs. A kilo
of rice procured after days of searching and standing in lines
transformed each grain into a nugget of gold. Fewer and fewer
grains found their way to Lucy’s bowl.
With no scraps to
share, we pounded the pavement in search of dog food. At first we
only had to search for an hour, buying a sack for about $2. The hunt
turned to an entire afternoon, then a day, sometimes longer. The
price went to $5, then $10, $20, $60, about a year’s salary for the
average Venezuelan.
Still, Lucy’s bowl
under the mango tree was filled each morning. But even as the price
of dog food skyrocketed, the quality plummeted. Name brands
disappeared from the shelves, the only options became sacks of ever
more questionable quality.
I can’t say for
sure that Lucy died from the food crisis of my adopted country, but I
think that might be the case. I can say for sure, her loss has broken
my heart
This afternoon I sat
under the guama tree in our farm in Sanare and cried my heart out. At
first it was for Lucy, and the memories of those cups of coffee,
those silent tete-a-tetes. But then it was for all the country.
By the time of my
afternoon cry, I counted 19 people who had come to visit me that day.
Lelo and sons and granddaughters brought posts for my fence, Eli and
Mamari returned a table, Bebe and Yeli came to stomp mud for my
chicken coop, Nani and Lucia and Maria Jose brought milk from their
grandfather’s cow, Marigres and Elida came to ask about borrowing
chairs for their sons’ graduation. Juan Carlitos brought me seeds
to plant, and Manuela brought her kids and cousin and long lost
friend Emiliano to visit.
Over 19 cups of
coffee, my neighbors and I shared the ins and outs of our day, our
lives, our country, our woes, our hopes. As Ledys and I had done so
many mornings with Lucy under the mango tree.
Lelo shared how he
spent the past three days with fever and aches, and no medicine for
relief. Marigres told me of her search for a nebulizer for her two
asthmatic kids. They had missed three months of school. She cried
silently in the nights as she rubbed their backs, her hands being the
only medicine she could offer.
Bebe and Yeli had
spent the morning following bees near the river, striking it rich
with a find of wild honey for their hungry daughter. Tiny Lucia
trailed along with her cousins just to give me a hug, her body
fragile in my embrace. Alba was enjoying a day of rest from her daily
long walks to and from school where she earns $5 a month as a
teacher. There are almost no public buses running, she explained.
Elida wondered what the next six years would bring, dumbfounded how
the same president who presided over this tragedy had been
re-elected.
I let the tears flow
like the waters of the Fumarola that nourish our small village. Its
waterfall – the lovely backdrop to my front yard, hurls free fall
down the face of the mountain at a dramatic speed. Waterfall and
tears all felt like one. Falling, churning, burning, cleansing,
draining, all at once. I let the pain go
Then I came back
into my kitchen and poured a treasured bag of rice into my biggest
pan and cooked it all up with three enormous overgrown kohlrabi from
the garden that Emiliano helped me cut up, boiling the heck out of
them, and blended them with rice. I don’t know if kohlrabi rice is
recommended for dogs, but I had to do something. There was no way I
was going to lose my two farm pups to Lucy’s fate.
And so it is with my
days here. I have to do something. Tomorrow afternoon the guides from
our kids farming collective will come, we will continue to prepare
the beds for the 60+ kinds of seed donated by amazing people who
don’t even know them
Such a mystery in
each seed that such life, beauty, nourishment, springs from something
so tiny, so inanimate, so mundane. Such a mystery in each of these
kids who come from some of the poorest homes on the plant but have
the richest of smiles and hugs and spirit. Such a mystery that a four
legged creature with a tail could rule my heart.
Lucy is gone. The
Venezuela I knew for 35 years is gone. I must trust that something
will grow from these shared seeds of pain.
Meanwhile, someone
please hand me a hoe.
