"What's taking you so long in the privy, son?" "Nothing, mama." "If you stay in there much longer, a snake will come and bite you" "Yes, mama." I was thinking of you, Susana of the green hills. Of when we used to fly kites in the windy season. We could hear the sounds of life from the town below; we were high above on the hill, playing out string to the wind. "Help me, Susana." And soft hands would tighten on mine. "Let out more string." The wind made us laugh; our eyes followed the string running through our fingers after the wind until with a faint pop! it broke, as if it had been snapped by the wings of a bird. And high over head, the paper bird would tumble and somersault, trailing its rag tail, until it disappeared into the green earth. Your lips were moist, as if kissed by the dew. "I told you, son, come out of the privy now." "Yes, mama. I'm coming." I was thinking of you. Of the times you were there looking at me with your aquamarine eyes. He looked up and saw his mother in the doorway. "What's taking you so long? What are you doing in there?" "I'm thinking." "Can't you do it somewhere else? It's not good for you to stay in the privy so long. Besides, you should be doing something. Why don't you go help your grandmother shell corn?" "I'm going, mama. I'm going."