The mist is seeping off the ocean coast in Lima—seeping I say, seeping up and into Milaflores Park, by the café: El Parquetito this sunny, Tuesday afternoon, where I am having my coffee and coke, sitting back absorbing the moment, writing this down for you. Other than that, doing nothing, nothing, I say, nothing at all.

Somewhere in the background the nation’s song is being played, and what really is going through my mind on this sunny day is: who will ever remember this one simple day.

My wife is reading the book: “Last Autumn and Winter,” poems out of Minnesota, and all around her the world seems busy, hot, sounds with entities of life. No potholes, like in Minnesota to worry about, or eleven inches of snow overnight, just an ocean a few blocks away, and sunny days.

The park is green, the fog has reached it now, it is also reaching me, in El Parquetito, but it will fade with the heat of the day, it always does. Romina is serving us today (she is young and happy, always smiling, goes to school in the evenings); Rosa will have Cebiche, for me, Lasagna.

I like the watching, listening, smells of the surrounding actions and motions of the café, I feel like I am underwater, watching everything, like an invisible alien. Ah! but who will remember a simple day like this, if I don’t write about it?