Fruit of the Drunken Tree

by Ingrid Rojas Contreras

The television lit our faces pale blue. Death was such a common thing.

War always seemed distant from Bogotá, like niebla descending on the hills and forests of the countryside and jungles. The way it approached us was like fog as well, without us realizing, until it sat embroiling everything around us.

I didn’t want to picture what I suspected was not possible. Better to imagine the worst. At least then you could be prepared.

Time was, I agreed, a space full of agreeable and disagreeable surprises.