I should write more. Or I may forget how the reflection of the Alahambra was more vibrant than the reality. Or how sweet was the tea, smoke and company. How we climbed the fence, and I felt the muscle memory of this body; this similar spontaneous self hopping other barriers, trees and rooftops that magical summer I chose life. I'm glad I haven't lost that girl. Or, I might forget the joy of meeting new people, sharing titles full of possibility - "The Hour of the Star" or "The Cherry Orchard" on scraps of paper and through talking about mutual passions, reveal again to myself the parts I like best.
Afraid too, I will forget the simple pleasure of being suspended in a hot safe web of water will connected to a sister, and also a Christmas eve where two Italians cooked paella and sangria in Granada, Spain for Kiwis, Mexicans, Americans, Brazilians, Russians.... Then midnight mass and a sleep so profound. Holidays have become bookmarks for making meaning of the passing of time. I am always glad for an opportunity to celebrate. I am thinking about the pleasure of the right song in the right moment and the satisfaction of motion, on the long bus ride to Granada as we pass endless orange groves. I carry curry, flax-seed and tea in my backpack, and in Valencia we found fresh basil and dates in this incredible market.
I hope I do forget fearing my body has betrayed me, though I did everything right... May nothing come of it. I try to send these messages with great intention to circulate along with my red blood cells. This fear was less when there were two to share it.
Will I lose the sea wind in my hair in Valencia, or the familiarity of smoky salsa bars, and the brave passion of Flamenco: the liberty of shedding material possessions, the purity of eating fresh earthy things and home-made wine in the Sierra Nevada over an icy stream through which snow-melt flows.
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