Roaming and Rambling

I am more thankful than I have ever been in my life. I have family, friends, three homes for my heart (& counting), a mama here who changes my sheets, does my laundry, feeds me two free meals a day, holds me when I cry and gives me love. And I have a mama back home waiting to do all the same, especially the latter part.  In all of this though, sometimes in this life I have questioned Death, how it lingers and how it leaves its traces for me. My friend Landon Hill passed away on Thanksgiving morning. Within 24 hours, a rapid onset of bacterial meningitis took him from the health, smiling, intelligent guy I was so very lucky to know to a place very far away. And the space he so beautifully filled in this world is now so empty that many around me, many blessed enough to call him "best" friend cannot bear it. I hurt for them - so very truly- a tightness in my chest. I know the burn of tears born of resentment for the injustice of the way of life. I know the way knees feel a...

"I can still hear the soft, southern winds in the live oak trees."  There are exactly 27 days between me and my flight home. 27. Twenty-seven more times that I will wake up in this rosy comforter covered bed, twenty-seven more times that I will walk to the windows, pull back the lace and look for that San Jose sun. Twenty-seven more times that I will hear Mama Tica call up "chicas, ya esta lista la cena!" before we skip down the stairs to the incredible smells of that giving woman's cooking. Twenty-seven more days of the familiar sound of the key in the lock, the safe sound of the gate swinging shut behind us, of the neighbor dog barking as if he's never met us before (always makes me laugh). Twenty-seven more days of Mama Tica's incense filling the house, of quietly observing Sofie brushing her long, dark, thick hair in the morning - carefully, slowly, and watching Angel check her uniform for the seventeenth time before rushing down to a late breakfa...

I remember the way the leather stuck to my legs in the humidity of the night of my arrival. A night inhaling - the deep breath of Sunday before another week was to begin, my final exhale of familiar air before the plunge. And there I was, half there, part here, all the way in between (the second the world holds you above the water).  The sighs of San Jose settled on my skin, the noise of the city: a sensual merengue in my ears, my heart timidly following life's beckoning wave - still unsure - a child peeking from behind the steady legs of my plans. I remember Spanish strange on my lips, rolling the word around on my tongue, the flavor of every syllable. It once tasted of rust and hesitancy, now it is sharp and light: limon y confianza. I remember her face the first time I shut the car door and turned into my future. Humble hands folded in front of her small frame, a smile that took its time - careful to promise me sincerity and the genuine love we would build. She was my Mother Mar...