Mucho Mas
I was insecure about my ankles; no one else was wearing leggings without socks. Mine were bare. Mine were white. Mine weren´t supposed to be exposed until, I guessed, mid-April or early May. I had done something equivalent to wearing a Seersucker after September or white shoes before June. I hid my embarrassment in a book (with English words plastered all over the front) and pretended not to notice.
For just a moment I felt the way I had when I was 13 and completely aware of all spirituality around me. I wanted to be there, I wanted to be inspired, I wanted to experience God, or whatever force it is that drives one to feel ethereal and untouched by anything worldly. The candle we lit was for him, for his family and for us-me and him-so we would get along, so we wouldn´t fight, and so I could love him as any older cousin should love her little one. He liked it when I played with the little tuft of hair that hung just a half an inch on the back of his neck. It calmed him. If I stopped, he gently took my hand and placed it back, wanting more of whatever it was he felt from my playful twisting. So we lit the candle and walked the church, the pulpit raised high, the poles standing straight above the altar, and the pews (like all Spanish pews I´ve seen so far) wooden and hard and movable. I left the church and the feeling, once again, like it did the moment I set foot in college, disappeared.
The smell alone could bring me back to Barcelona to stay. It was the wooden IKEA bed or the pine closet doors that created it. But either way I wanted it all the time. I want the view, the chilled morning air, the torrential rain, the blazing sun, the forest´s needles, the bakery, the people, the fashion, the cafe at teeny bars, the separation from you, the transportation, the beach, the language(s), the food, and the via de vida. I wish it were final.
For just a moment I felt the way I had when I was 13 and completely aware of all spirituality around me. I wanted to be there, I wanted to be inspired, I wanted to experience God, or whatever force it is that drives one to feel ethereal and untouched by anything worldly. The candle we lit was for him, for his family and for us-me and him-so we would get along, so we wouldn´t fight, and so I could love him as any older cousin should love her little one. He liked it when I played with the little tuft of hair that hung just a half an inch on the back of his neck. It calmed him. If I stopped, he gently took my hand and placed it back, wanting more of whatever it was he felt from my playful twisting. So we lit the candle and walked the church, the pulpit raised high, the poles standing straight above the altar, and the pews (like all Spanish pews I´ve seen so far) wooden and hard and movable. I left the church and the feeling, once again, like it did the moment I set foot in college, disappeared.
The smell alone could bring me back to Barcelona to stay. It was the wooden IKEA bed or the pine closet doors that created it. But either way I wanted it all the time. I want the view, the chilled morning air, the torrential rain, the blazing sun, the forest´s needles, the bakery, the people, the fashion, the cafe at teeny bars, the separation from you, the transportation, the beach, the language(s), the food, and the via de vida. I wish it were final.
