(no subject)
What in your host community will be unavailable
to you when you return home?
Unavailable
I. The lamp gives the room a soft glow, dancing off the varnish of Maggie’s guitar as she strums; it sifts through her curls as she starts to sing. Her voice warbles, this song is a little below her range but slowly the others join in and the sound builds, filling the room. Sandra and Angela wave invisible lighters through the air from the couch across from me. Sandra’s fiancé sits next to her. Their knees touch. He strums a second guitar and the sound is warm and encompassing. My head is feeling heavy and the beer is warm in my stomach. I laugh as I slip out of tune. Julia found the words for me in a songbook, but I’m guessing as to the tune. Warm shoulders press into mine.
“A sus praderas y flores, que son como talismanes”
II. “Haaaaaaaay Elote! Hay Ellllote.” My feet crunch on the gravel as I turn my back, peeling back the husk and savoring the contrasts of sweet and salt and lime on my tongue. The moon is full and I stare up at it as I move forward, bright white in a dark blue sky.
III.
“ No te vayas Maestra, No te vayas.”
“Abigail, Tengo tres semanas mas. No voy a regresar mañana.”
“No te vayas Maestra.”
“ Esta bien. Voy a ponerte en mi maleta. Nadie va a ver. Seguro va a estar fácil.”
“Yo también maestra.”
“Pienso que voy a necesitar mas maletas.”
IV.
I’m leaning over the crib, the bar pressing into my stomach. Pio is sprawled out on his back, in his white onsie, little white teeth on display.
“Pio, I need my hair back.”
He tugs at it again, pulling it into his mouth.
“Oh it tastes good huh? Well how bout we get you some food instead. Huh? Huh?”
He giggles as I begin to tickle him, tossing his head from side to side and waving his arms, brown eyes crinkling at the edges. The dimple makes an appearance.
“En serio Pio, dame mi pelo.”
V. The big picture, the feeling of Mexico, the people, the sounds and sights and smells. The life I’ve lived for the past four months is what will be unavailable to me at home. I won’t speak Spanish everyday. I won’t see the kids I’ve grown to love. Everything will smell differently. The old smell will be a good one, (with perhaps the exception of my bedroom at home, which thanks to my cats will probably have a horrible stench). I will return to people I miss and coffee shops I frequent. I will read a magazine in English on the plane ride home, but I will miss this place. I will miss these people and this feeling that has changed me, in the only way anything ever does, by creeping into your bones and nudging at your structure, mixing with your past to create your future.
to you when you return home?
Unavailable
I. The lamp gives the room a soft glow, dancing off the varnish of Maggie’s guitar as she strums; it sifts through her curls as she starts to sing. Her voice warbles, this song is a little below her range but slowly the others join in and the sound builds, filling the room. Sandra and Angela wave invisible lighters through the air from the couch across from me. Sandra’s fiancé sits next to her. Their knees touch. He strums a second guitar and the sound is warm and encompassing. My head is feeling heavy and the beer is warm in my stomach. I laugh as I slip out of tune. Julia found the words for me in a songbook, but I’m guessing as to the tune. Warm shoulders press into mine.
“A sus praderas y flores, que son como talismanes”
II. “Haaaaaaaay Elote! Hay Ellllote.” My feet crunch on the gravel as I turn my back, peeling back the husk and savoring the contrasts of sweet and salt and lime on my tongue. The moon is full and I stare up at it as I move forward, bright white in a dark blue sky.
III.
“ No te vayas Maestra, No te vayas.”
“Abigail, Tengo tres semanas mas. No voy a regresar mañana.”
“No te vayas Maestra.”
“ Esta bien. Voy a ponerte en mi maleta. Nadie va a ver. Seguro va a estar fácil.”
“Yo también maestra.”
“Pienso que voy a necesitar mas maletas.”
IV.
I’m leaning over the crib, the bar pressing into my stomach. Pio is sprawled out on his back, in his white onsie, little white teeth on display.
“Pio, I need my hair back.”
He tugs at it again, pulling it into his mouth.
“Oh it tastes good huh? Well how bout we get you some food instead. Huh? Huh?”
He giggles as I begin to tickle him, tossing his head from side to side and waving his arms, brown eyes crinkling at the edges. The dimple makes an appearance.
“En serio Pio, dame mi pelo.”
V. The big picture, the feeling of Mexico, the people, the sounds and sights and smells. The life I’ve lived for the past four months is what will be unavailable to me at home. I won’t speak Spanish everyday. I won’t see the kids I’ve grown to love. Everything will smell differently. The old smell will be a good one, (with perhaps the exception of my bedroom at home, which thanks to my cats will probably have a horrible stench). I will return to people I miss and coffee shops I frequent. I will read a magazine in English on the plane ride home, but I will miss this place. I will miss these people and this feeling that has changed me, in the only way anything ever does, by creeping into your bones and nudging at your structure, mixing with your past to create your future.