It's Still Life

A Stream of Consciousness from Colombia

…mantequilla — it’s a small packet that might be butter — it’s probably butter; it’s in a basket next to the bread rolls. Marmite is a long shot. Salsa, not such a long shot. ¡Buenos días! He asks if I want eggs. Two. ¿Medio? I will take them how they come. This is Colombia. I’ve learnt not to be fussy, which is different from not having expectations — like expecting torrential rain in mid-afternoons, knowing mornings are always better for outdoor things, expecting little boys to have voices louder than thunder and little girls with voices softer than Andean mist.

A llama the colour of milk chocolate walks by the window.

“Forsigtig; den gule frugt er meget bideri,” he says about the fruit I’m about to eat. “Bitter,” I’m warned, this fruit that looks like frog spawn. There are six of us at the breakfast table, and we speak three different languages at the same time.

And yes, it is butter.

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2026.