El torro salbatice

I speak in one word riddles, Fernando is patiently nodding and trying to act as if I make sense. I will miss Fernando. He is the cowboy uncle I didn’t know I’ve always been missing. He cant read or write, but he can speak the language of horses and catch a bull with a lasso whilst smoking a cigarette. That’s a skill lost in most parts of the modern world. 
Both me and Fernando prefer the horses instead of working with concrete we agree on   after a day full of concrete mixing without gloves. We sit side by side in silence by the stove, I find the word “burning” in the lexicon, hold up my hands in front of him with a pained face, he is nodding. Then it takes me some charades to explain home made bee cream, honeycomb and beekeperfriend, F is nodding. We carefully apply the cream I brough from sweden on our rough burning hands, it almost feel like a sacred ritual, F drinks his Mate and nodd affirmingly whilst holding up his hand. It is raining outside and we watch it together in silence.

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