My love,
I wonder how the wind feels like where you are. From where I am, it feels like a treat to my lungs every time I breathe. It’s the smell of leaves and dewdrops in the morning. The escape from the heat.
If our province has a distinct smell, it’s the scent of oil extracted from dried coconut kernels called copra. In front of the houses, rice grains are laid, raked, and dried under the sun.
Here, coconut trees are within our reach. One just has to climb. I call them the ‘coconut men’, with an ‘itak’ (machete) to cut the fruit in half. The juice flows directly to my cup which I like more than the flesh. If you were here, I’d be giving you all the flesh.
If you were here, I’d let you taste the sea, feel the heat of the sand, and the waves bubbling at our feet; and see the hermit crabs—what I call ‘moving shells’—in retreat.
