Now I fully understand the weight of those years, the question marks that fell from trees, the endless poverty, love in a time of cholera, the unwavering gazes of black crows outside the single room we used as a home, the water in the cheap perfume bottles, the night-time surrender, the spent heat from lovers in the next room, the old man and the sea. I understand why we had thoughts about the ocean. The answers on your skin, the pale place behind your left knee, the extra fat on your body of which we were both unashamed of (for different reasons), the unquestioning curve of your back when you thought I was not watching as you slept on the beach, Okri’s fiends licking you from the fingers to the story of your clitoris. I remember leading the white calf of bounty from a rope tied to my nose, the mock ceremony and the band of sisal around your wedding finger, the smell of your body when you were afraid, the smell of my own body when I was afraid for you, the smell of shisha you had smoked a hundred years earlier. I must admit that I was searching for answers when I studied the still life melancholy of your body, the way you drew dew as cursive letters in the air, as if that was where memory lurked, the taste of your skin after spending all day in the water, how different food tasted in that weather.