The patio

The sea breathes. On this corner of the patio there is always a cool breeze even at the hottest time of the day when the air is humid and thick elsewhere. 

He is surrounded by a side yard where on his right there is an orange tree, a lemon tree, a pomegranate tree and an olive tree and on his back a narrow backyard fenced by shrubs and beyond those another backyard with a fig tree and a desolate white house. The neighbours are old and not visiting the desolate house anymore. The fig tree, left to grow old naturally shares a large pale ground with a gigantic cactus plant. The figs on the branches are smallish and they are not tasty and on the ground there are rotten figs. On his left, there is a small invisible frame enclosed by the patio and white walls. From that in the late afternoon he watches the sun setting over the sea beyond the house and shrubs, and bougainvillaea. 

He watches a wasp with a long tail buzzing around cavities under the patio roof, sampling then moving along. From farther he hears a cuckoo singing.

The old house is quiet now. It had seen days when elders were alive, and sons and daughters were married and just had their own. The house was abuzz with chatter and people were walking up and down the stairs, and there were sounds of cutlery and tea brewing. 

The cuckoo stops singing. He is resting in his old chair. His eye lids close.