One Hundred Years of Solitude

now, he would say. It cant
rain for the rest of our lives.
And while the urgencies of
the pantry grew greater,
Fernandas indignation also
grew, until her eventual
protests, her infrequent
outbursts came forth in an
uncontained, unchained
torrent that begin one
morning like the monotonous
drone of a guitar and as the
day advanced rose in pitch,
richer and more splendid.