Thinking back to the fields of wildflowers waxing and waning,
as I carried my backpack, and boots, and socks;
walking barefoot along the river bend that I frequented in my past.
Family trips in The Colorful State during the summers; fishing with my grandfather. Rainbow trout.
Fish fries with Omar, the Pakistani software engineer that bought the cabins my family stayed at.
My cousin’s wedding idyllically located there; a decade after the family trips stopped. Shared memories.
The crisp mountain lake you could skate on, nestled between glaciers,
in the northernmost part of western Montana. The whispers,
of the tribes that once inhabited this place, echoing upwards from the walls of the valley.
The location a fitting endpoint for a spur of the moment road trip; taken with a, now, ex-girlfriend;
the violinist with whom I frequented the symphony the year we dated.
Impromptu performances with her family. Stravinsky and Rachmaninoff. Vivaldi and Brahms.
The Sunday paella, with my roommate Victor, his brother, and his parents, in a little village outside of Valencia.
With the roman structures nestled throughout the hillsides tellings stories;
of a history before history in this small quiet town. How my mother fainted on the train ride out,
and the kindness of the Spaniards in looking after this foreign woman sensitive to the heat.
Not able to sit still until we were all attended to. Generosity of spirit.
The standby flight to Lisbon, to catch a plane for Marrakesh, where I was almost mugged,
by street hustlers who “helped” me find a place for tajine. The trip out to the desert;
getting kicked off the bus for forgetting to visit an ATM to pay. Hitchhiking on shared rides.
The Muslims in the aged Volkswagen during Ramadan; how they all prayed and chanted together,
as I sat, seat belt-less in the front seat, racing through rolling hills of sand. Completely barren of grass.
The family in Punta Arenas who took me in when my planned lack-of-a-plan fell through,
and I couldn’t find any room for the night. The simple meal they cooked as I spoke,
in broken Spanish, with their children about the United States. Spending New Years there,
watching fireworks past midnight; on a rooftop in a region where the Sun doesn’t set.
The couple I met visiting the Cuernos and Torres in the national park,
and how they moved to Singapore to raise their boy and girl.
Life is a lot quieter now, and many of the people and places I’ve met in my past are only seen in memories;
my grandfather is no longer around. Yet, when I get a moment of calm from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, I can reflect, and think back to the way the air smelled in that foreign mountain range,
and the way the rain was soaking through my clothes; the wind sweeping through the husks of the old,
dried out, dead trees. Finding little reminders; like the name and phone number of the Japanese engineer.
The one that I couldn’t contact when I was bouncing around Tokyo two years later.
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