(no subject)
I am thirty five years old today. For nearly four of them, I have lived on this island. To say I had never anticipated living in any one place so long would be a vast understatement, and I cannot say that at the end of it- or at least at the present, for there is no actual end in sight- I am as grateful for my time here as some seem to be. There have been people, yes, that I am deeply grateful to have known, but it's not enough. I have no delusions about that. Perhaps it is a byproduct of spending so many more years than thirty without anyone as a permanent fixture in my life, but even if there had been, well.
I don't think anyone could describe me as the settling down type, not with a straight face anyway.
I drop my pack absently onto the kitchen table and tug on my climbing gloves. I've come to fetch a few reserves and then it's off. To be honest, I'm not sure where it is I'm going. The mountain's only fun in winter, anymore, but I feel as though it's been some time since I properly dug into second island. If, when I'm on the bike and ready to go, neither of those are appealing, I may simply go antagonize some dinosaurs.
The possibilities are practically endless.
I open and close the refrigerator, removing juice with which to fill my travel bottle, and when I've looked back there is a photograph stuck to its front with a magnet. The magnet is an arrowhead, very old, flecked through with bronze and glued with questionable skill to the black round magnet. The photograph is large, glossy and tinged with sepia, not on purpose but from questionable film stock, the sort used in the seventies, when I was a girl. When I was, say, nine.
There is a tall, slender woman, brown hair swept off her neck and pinned, wearing a devastatingly stylish khaki jumpsuit that still bears signs of actual use, if not as much as the clothing of the man, or little girl, with her. He is more tan, unkempt, but still radiates the poise and power and total assurance I always remember him bearing. He grins easily out at me from the photograph, squinting into a sun that is twenty six years behind my shoulder. I stand between them, boots a little too tall, smile wide, cradling the monkey I'd kept the months we were there- for this is Ghana, even if I didn't remember the photo being taken I would know even a glimpse of her hills anywhere- in both arms. Enam is behind the camera, the first boy I ever felt silly over. He was sixteen at the time. The only person involved in the taking of this photograph that I knew into adulthood.
Within a month of this moment I hold in my hands, I had lost her. Do I remember her being this shining? I think I do. I think I remember her as she was. It is difficult at times to say. I let out something that's between a laugh and a sigh, turning to lean against the kitchen counter, holding the arrowhead in the crease of my palm and the photo itself with the other, smiling down at it.
I don't think anyone could describe me as the settling down type, not with a straight face anyway.
I drop my pack absently onto the kitchen table and tug on my climbing gloves. I've come to fetch a few reserves and then it's off. To be honest, I'm not sure where it is I'm going. The mountain's only fun in winter, anymore, but I feel as though it's been some time since I properly dug into second island. If, when I'm on the bike and ready to go, neither of those are appealing, I may simply go antagonize some dinosaurs.
The possibilities are practically endless.
I open and close the refrigerator, removing juice with which to fill my travel bottle, and when I've looked back there is a photograph stuck to its front with a magnet. The magnet is an arrowhead, very old, flecked through with bronze and glued with questionable skill to the black round magnet. The photograph is large, glossy and tinged with sepia, not on purpose but from questionable film stock, the sort used in the seventies, when I was a girl. When I was, say, nine.
There is a tall, slender woman, brown hair swept off her neck and pinned, wearing a devastatingly stylish khaki jumpsuit that still bears signs of actual use, if not as much as the clothing of the man, or little girl, with her. He is more tan, unkempt, but still radiates the poise and power and total assurance I always remember him bearing. He grins easily out at me from the photograph, squinting into a sun that is twenty six years behind my shoulder. I stand between them, boots a little too tall, smile wide, cradling the monkey I'd kept the months we were there- for this is Ghana, even if I didn't remember the photo being taken I would know even a glimpse of her hills anywhere- in both arms. Enam is behind the camera, the first boy I ever felt silly over. He was sixteen at the time. The only person involved in the taking of this photograph that I knew into adulthood.
Within a month of this moment I hold in my hands, I had lost her. Do I remember her being this shining? I think I do. I think I remember her as she was. It is difficult at times to say. I let out something that's between a laugh and a sigh, turning to lean against the kitchen counter, holding the arrowhead in the crease of my palm and the photo itself with the other, smiling down at it.