Perimeters, peaches, and pacay

The creek runs along the west and south perimeters of the casita. The water used to be clean when Leifer was a kid, but now he prefers to keep the children out of it. Adults can easily step over the creek, but for a toddler, it’s much more difficult. Lucca likes to toss little pebbles and sticks into the water, often teetering on the edge, easily losing his balance.

We walk along the creek on the south side of the casita, crossing a small bridge into Abuelita’s orchard. Pacay trees line the perimeter. To reach the highest branches, they use twelve-foot-long bamboo sticks, hooking a branch and jiggling it until the pacay fruit falls. Leifer, however, went straight to the source, climbing up the branches in his flip-flops, his childhood muscles remembering their work. The branches are about the thickness of a standard pipe.

Once the pacay are on the ground, they are gathered using large woven cloths, about three feet by three feet, like oversized handkerchiefs. The fruit is placed in the center, the four corners tied together, creating a makeshift sack that can be slung over the shoulder—this is how most things are carried here, even babies.

The boys each tried their hand at juggling the bamboo sticks to shake down the pacay. Leifer picked up a handful. "This is worth about one sol," he said. Today’s harvest is in preparation for selling the pacay at the market this weekend.

The boys are beginning to test the boundaries of the casita, venturing out. Roy appears, and they want to follow him. Leifer stays close by; they still have much to learn. Once harvested, the corn stalks are cut close to the ground, leaving behind sharp stubs. Leifer has scars from falling on them as a child. If you don’t watch your step, it’s easy to trip.

I miss my independence. I am with the boys all day; we sleep in the same room. I share everything with them. I love being with them, yet I also hold memories of my twenties—working in downtown San Francisco, single, focused only on excelling at my job and earning promotions. Back then, action led to results in a clear cause-and-effect manner. Now, my accomplishments are impossible to quantify. I know raising my children is important work, but I still long for something of my own. Writing is mine, if I can stick with it.

I am grateful to live in a multi-generational household. Here, everyone contributes. There is no retirement, only a gradual slowing of pace. Abuelita once raised cows; she no longer does. Yet, the casita still thrives, full of life within its boundaries. I wonder what will happen to it after Leifer’s parents and after Abuelita’s passion and energy fade. What traditions will endure in future generations? Like so many others, all of Abuelita’s eight children left home—some stayed in Peru, some moved to the U.S. They return often, but will anyone come back to live? Change is inevitable, but in what way? Here, we live more communally—chores and meals are shared. Life follows the rhythm of the harvest: corn is gathered six months of the year, potatoes for four.

Leifer walks around the casita with his tape measure, assessing every inch. I can see the wheels turning in his head. He has ideas—projects beginning to percolate. He fixed the toilet the other day; water had been leaking onto the floor, and Lucca kept slipping. He also installed a light over the outdoor sink, now connected to a switch on the wall. Last night, Abuelita was washing apples in the dark—now she’ll have light.

Leif ate a chicken foot. “You’ve done something I haven’t,” I told him. Leifer’s sister cooks with chicken feet, but I’ve always handed mine to Leifer. It doesn’t seem like it would have much nutrition, and it certainly doesn’t look appetizing to me. Still, I think it’s high in collagen, and less of the chicken goes to waste. Leif liked it. I may never give it a chance.

This morning, we had no internet. I couldn’t think about anything else—my connection to home severed temporarily. I don’t even like the internet, but there is comfort in checking in. Our life in California moves forward without us. Change creates two paths: the one we are on and the one we left behind. We chose Peru, but California continues, indifferent to our absence. When we return, parts of it will be unfamiliar, changed while we were gone.

I feel unsettled. I miss home. I miss strong shower pressure, salad kits, my dishwasher, lattes. I miss walking barefoot without feeling rude, putting my feet on the couch without second thoughts. I miss the security I had even two months ago. My hierarchy of needs has shifted. First my husband, then my home, then my country. Or maybe it was always in that order, but I was never forced to choose. Every night in the shower, I ask myself if I should go back to California. But why? I wonder. My life there has already crumbled. My husband wouldn’t be there to help me rebuild; I’d be alone. If I leave, I’d be taking my children from their father and their father from them. That sounds unbearable. I’ve now let go of my health insurance and Leif’s enrollment in his American school, making my decision to stay feel more final.

Enzo begs me to stay with him at school. He negotiates: "Bring me a treat. Don’t leave until the teacher says. Come pick me up today." I hate leaving him. I feel my own childhood separations from my mother all over again. Enzo is the middle child, just as I was.

Finn tells us there is a library here that closed during COVID. The librarian, heartbroken, was told not to return to work. Even worse, the books remain inside, locked away, untouched as the roof begins to collapse. Many believe the children don’t need the library anymore because they have devices. How do we change their minds?

Abuelita plays Huayno music while she cooks and does chores. Lucca bounces, waving his hands in the air, clapping—his movements remind me of the traditional dance I first saw Leifer perform at a family barbecue in Redwood City.

Finn tells me people here fear the cold. Abuelita worries over us when it rains, urging us to wear sweaters and keep our feet covered. She believes if we don’t cover up more, we’ll fall ill.

Leif asked me if there was a baby growing in my belly.
“You want another Lucca running around here?” I teased.
“Yes,” he said. “I want ten.”
Abuelita laughed when I told her, but then she grew serious. “Do you want more babies?” she asked.
“No,” I assured her.

I sat by the front door, waiting for the boys to return with Leifer from school. A moto drove down the driveway, piled high with crates of green peaches. Our neighbors, four of them, began unloading. They packed the peaches into boxes, presumably for shipping. One of them handed me seven. I picked them up, inhaling their scent—a fresh peach. Exquisite. I squeezed one—still firm. Should we wait to eat them? At home, peaches come in August. I remember Leif in my belly, me lying on the couch, too hot to move, eating peaches from Tía’s tree. That year, there were so many peaches—we ate them by the half-dozen.