"We must get a good killing lance and always have it on board. You can make the blade from a spring leaf from an old Ford. We can grind it in Guanabacoa. It should be sharp and not tempered so it will break. My knife broke."
"I'll get another knife and have the spring ground. How many days of heavy brisa have we?"
"Maybe three. Maybe more."
"I will have everything in order," the boy said. "You get your hands well old man."
"I know how to care for them. In the night I spat something strange and felt something in my chest was broken."
"Get that well too," the boy said. "Lie down, old man, and I will bring you your clean shirt. And something to eat."
I don't know how to heal my son's heart right now. He came to work with me today. I wrote reports and compiled statistics. He played on his laptop. At lunch, we streamed an episode of Whose Line Is It Anyway? We didn't talk about suspensions or appropriate behaviors or language. We just basked in each other's company.
Saint Marty's koan for today: a good day is a clean shirt.
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