The Andean wind whistled an ancestral melody while Elena, my aunt with her hands weathered by time and the earth, weaved carefully, her fingers agile like hummingbirds, intertwining threads of alpaca wool on a loom that had belonged to her grandmother. She was not weaving a simple blanket, but a poncho with a story. Elena lived in a small town nestled in heart of the Ecuadorian Andes, a place where time seemed to stop, where the mountains were silent guardians and where traditions were transmitted from generation to generation as a priceless treasure, and the poncho, more than a garment, was a symbol of identity, of belonging, of connection with the land and with the ancestors.

– jostin

Relationship:  Im/migrant Im/migrant