I think that one of these days my old house on the Pan American highway will fall down, being too far gone to repair. The house belongs to Robertito Delgado, the eldest son of Roberto Delgado, the father of five of Minga’s children. Minga is not Robertito’s mother. He lives in Panama City, and apparently has little interest in the property.
That’s Daira, who was about six, Archie’s age, carrying the fish.
I like to visit the house, stand inside, because it’s filled with memories. The two rooms were very small. I had two army cots, one to sit on and one to sleep on. I had a small table and a straight backed chair, a locker of books, a medical kit, and a big mosquito net that hung from the ceiling and draped over the cot, protecting me from bats and mosquitoes. I had electricity, because I was right on the highway — one 40 watt bulb hanging from the rafters of each room. No running water.
I had Minga, who lived in one room with her family, in a mud and thatch house about ten feet behind.