Contenta Corazón

It is Sunday. Abuelita got up before the sun to go to the market. They had piled up all the pacay from their trees the night before, then put it in large sacks. Once the sacks were full, she weighed each one and wrote down the weight on a piece of paper, placing it on top of the pacay in the sack. She left this morning with three large sacks, very heavy to carry. Abuelita put them in a wheelbarrow to get to the main road. From there, she got in a combi to take her to the market. “If you get there early,” Leifer tells me, “you sell to bigger vendors from Lima. They are looking for bulk quantities, so you can sell it all quickly. If you get to the market later, you are selling to local people who are buying in smaller quantities.” Abuelita returned to the house at 8:30. She told me she had sold everything. She brought back squash, cucumbers, bananas, bread, cheese, avocados, and much more. On the counter, she placed a roasted pig’s head. She opened the jaw, and I could see the pig’s teeth. She tore the meat away from the bone and served it on a plate with boiled corn, lettuce, and onions cooked in lime juice. Choncho Asada. The literal translation is pork roast. Pork is an occasional treat. This is the first time we have seen it on our plate. I savored each bite, taking my time.

Pictured above: Choncho Asada

Lucca had an explosion in his diaper. We stripped him down, and Leifer put him in the shower. He washed him off with a bar of soap. I wrapped him in a towel and brought him out to Abuelita for besitos. “Contento corazón,” she says. Yes indeed, I watched them smile at one another. As we all settle into this Peruvian life, contento corazón.

The boys' clothes are starting to get holes. Inside the casita, they are playing on concrete, and their clothes are getting much more wear and tear. I asked Abuelita for a needle and some thread. She brought out a small box with yellow, blue, purple, and red thread, two needles, and a pair of sharp scissors. I picked up Leif’s pants, which had holes in both front pockets. I showed Leif how the tip of the needle is sharp. Leif helped me stitch the needle through. “What is this called?” he wanted to know. Leifer had a sewing machine when I first met him. I have seen him mend clothing. He used to mend Rudy’s dog toys so that she could use them longer. I was always surprised Leifer knew how to sew. But, living here, I can understand why. There is so much more life left in your clothes with a bit of mending.

Leif told me that one of the chickens wasn’t moving in the coop. Abuelita opened the chicken's mouth and poured water in, and the chicken got up and started walking around. Did Abuelita bring the chicken back to life? My children seek to understand their world here. I appreciate hearing their interpretations, which are sometimes quite different from my own. I wasn’t there. If Abuelita brought a chicken back to life, how can I question that?

The boys left with Abuelita and Abuelito for Carhuaz. There is more shopping and better prices than in Mancos, and it is about twenty minutes by combi. We needed supplies for the house and kids. I stayed back with Lucca, getting him settled for a nap. I put on a telenovela—Scars of Beauty. He likes the noise. It reminds me of how my mom told me that she would sit up with me late at night watching Saturday Night Live if I had trouble sleeping. Lucca lays across my chest. This is where he sleeps now, taking comfort in my heartbeat. He was in a crib at home, but we don’t have one here. So the bed is pushed up against the wall. The wall protects him on one side and my body on the other.

After nap time, once the boys returned, we went upstairs to the second floor, which has one room and a balcony. Leifer’s brother built it for Abuelito so he had a nice spot to sit and look at the view of the white mountains in the afternoons. Abuelito prefers to sit in a chair outside his door. I don’t blame him—people walk by all the time, and he is there for the comings and goings. He stays in the middle of it all.

Pictured above: Stunning view from the second floor balcony

On this second floor is a twin-sized bed. Leifer got to work on trying to get the frame down the stairs. Halfway down the staircase is a 90-degree angle, and there is a rafter in the middle of the space above the staircase that you need to contend with. There is corn hanging from the rafter. Corn is drying everywhere, the kernels spread out on sacks on the floor and the cobs up high. I can’t tell you how many times I run into it accidentally. We finally figured out that if we flipped the frame upside down and sent it over the rafter, we could get it down the stairs. So that’s what we did, trying to keep the baby from climbing up. Once we got the bed frame down, Leifer and Leif cleaned it. We brought it into our room and set it up against the wall. We still need a barrier for the baby on the other side, but how do we do it? Leifer doesn’t have any nails or screws. We will come up with something.

I sat on the other bed, worn out from the work. My arms ached, my joints were sore, and there was tension in my neck. “Leifer, I feel like I cannot do anything here. I do small tasks, and I’m exhausted. I don’t speak the language; I’m of no use. All I can do is take care of my kids.” My voice cracked, and tears streamed down my face. The boys were eating a globo pop on the floor. Lucca and Enzo both turned around to look at me. “I’m okay,” I told them. “Sometimes I just feel better when I cry. Mom needs to cry just like you do.”

Earlier in the day, I had started to look into ways that I could bring more books to Peru, especially up here in the mountains. There are non-profit organizations that do this work, but could I really be of use when my Spanish is so limited? And what happens after I leave? Will I start something that ends with me? These questions still swirled through my head as I wiped my tears.

“There is some reason we are here,” Leifer told me. I have so much I want to do and give. I hope that, in time, the answer will come. For now, contenta corazón. Enzo told me, “I love Peru.” I love you, Enzo.

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Thank you for continuing to read and support my writing. Each time I see your comments and well-wishes appear, I'm reminded of why I started sharing these words in the first place. Your thoughtful responses and consistent presence have created something I never expected - a much stronger dialogue that is the start of something bigger. In moments of uncertainty, knowing you're all out there gives me the courage to keep going. I'm deeply grateful to have you with me on this journey.