The snails lived at the base of the mulberry tree in my grandparents’ front yard. I was seven, my sister five, when we collected them one summer morning, placing them carefully in our buckets, their soft bellies sliding along the plastic, staining the insides with mucus. It was always so hot in san jose, so different from the summers at home in the mountains. No breeze or rushing river water, no lake to cool down. Not in the valley. There was only grandpa smoking on the front porch, reclining in his tattered chair, and endless heat. Sun bouncing off asphalt and concrete. My sister and me running circles through the sprinklers.
I never thought much about snails after that summer, or maybe it was a few summers from my childhood blurring into one. Not until I was twenty-four and standing in an outdoor shower somewhere in south america. The water was freezing and I stood to the side to lather my hair. We’d been traveling for an indefinite period—my husband …
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