Dear One,
I've never wished I was fluent in another language more than I did when I met you. What wouldn't I give to know your story?! The lines on your face, that magically smooth rather than deepen when you smile, tell me that your tale would be well worth the hearing. And your smile. I wish I'd been able to capture it on film. It could heal the world.
Just before crossing your path, my senses were being inundated with sounds, smells, scents, and textures all brand new to me. Which is why I love to travel, of course, but is also just... a lot... some moments. This is a beautiful island you call home, no question, I've talked with so many people about its splendor. Beaches and fruit laden trees and softly lapping waves...but it nags at me to leave the description there. It has its scars. (Don't we all?), but these wounds were new to me, new at least in the way things can be when you know them but don't know them. Knowledge of this strain doesn't come until the textbook is removed and the newscast a memory and the information comes at you first hand, skin on skin, smell on smell, sight on sight.
My eyes were stinging from the flood of sunscreen pouring into them as I sweat off my third or fourth SPF application of the day. Everything sticking. My shirt to my chest, my hair to my neck, my thighs to each other ( ugh.) I've never known such hot. I've never been in air so thick you could almost grab enough of it to wring out like a towel. And a rotten fruit smell that doesn't permeate the air by any means but can stagger you with potency from one step to the next before disappearing again, replaced by the burnt-tropical scent of my sunscreen reaching boiling point. Passing homes that would barely pass as sheds here, but with lace curtains hanging in the squares cut out of the aluminum, making windows, begging a breeze.
And trash. Nearly everywhere. It pained me to buy the cold soda that was swishing around in my bag on this walk because I knew where it would end up when I was done. The choice being here or on the ground, as best I could tell.
Then, at about this point, I heard the sounds of children getting out of school. That sound is fairly universal. Skipping and laughing and racing and tagging. Ducking laundry and dodging chickens. Play. Freedom. Joy.
Young girls talked a handsome boy into climbing a tree to get them fresh coconut water.
Two big grins chased me down with shouts of "Take my picture! Take my picture!"
And as they ran off, after approving their photo first, my ear latched onto the sound of a young boy laughing, a sound my heart is particularly attune to. Following the path around the bend, you came into sight. Sitting, relaxing with your grandson, the laughing boy, and beaming at him a smile that not just took my breath away, but actually made me forget that I was melting down like a candle just moments before. The ease of your conversation, and the joy he clearly felt just being next to you... it was a richness to rival any on the Forbes list. So taken by the scene, I asked if I could take your picture, (thankfully I knew that much in your language!), and you turned that smile on me with a kind, "si". The photo-taking brought out a more serious look on your face, but the essence of you still comes through I think.
With a "gracias" and smile of my own we parted, you continuing your story to a sweet faced boy and me listening to his responding laughter catch the coconut breeze and drift down behind me through a lace-curtained cutout, wondering just what it is I now...
know.
Most Gratefully,
me
I've never wished I was fluent in another language more than I did when I met you. What wouldn't I give to know your story?! The lines on your face, that magically smooth rather than deepen when you smile, tell me that your tale would be well worth the hearing. And your smile. I wish I'd been able to capture it on film. It could heal the world.
Just before crossing your path, my senses were being inundated with sounds, smells, scents, and textures all brand new to me. Which is why I love to travel, of course, but is also just... a lot... some moments. This is a beautiful island you call home, no question, I've talked with so many people about its splendor. Beaches and fruit laden trees and softly lapping waves...but it nags at me to leave the description there. It has its scars. (Don't we all?), but these wounds were new to me, new at least in the way things can be when you know them but don't know them. Knowledge of this strain doesn't come until the textbook is removed and the newscast a memory and the information comes at you first hand, skin on skin, smell on smell, sight on sight.
My eyes were stinging from the flood of sunscreen pouring into them as I sweat off my third or fourth SPF application of the day. Everything sticking. My shirt to my chest, my hair to my neck, my thighs to each other ( ugh.) I've never known such hot. I've never been in air so thick you could almost grab enough of it to wring out like a towel. And a rotten fruit smell that doesn't permeate the air by any means but can stagger you with potency from one step to the next before disappearing again, replaced by the burnt-tropical scent of my sunscreen reaching boiling point. Passing homes that would barely pass as sheds here, but with lace curtains hanging in the squares cut out of the aluminum, making windows, begging a breeze.
And trash. Nearly everywhere. It pained me to buy the cold soda that was swishing around in my bag on this walk because I knew where it would end up when I was done. The choice being here or on the ground, as best I could tell.
Young girls talked a handsome boy into climbing a tree to get them fresh coconut water.
know.
Most Gratefully,
me
