All the Things I Have Ever Loved

I am all the things I have ever loved:

Being warm. Being dry. Blankets. Hugs.

Family. Friends.

Spaghetti. Red sauce. Long noodles twirled around my fork.

My Little Ponies. Inspector Gadget. She-Ra. Rainbow Brite.

Kitties. Hide and Seek. Memory Games. Scavenger Hunts.

Outside and playing Lost Girls. 

The soothing sound of the water. Warm sand between my toes.

The tall thin boy a year older than me whose gaze I could never meet.

Emo. Scream-o. Basement shows.

Goodwill. Messenger bags. Home-made patches. Safety pins.

Eyeliner. Ball-chain necklaces. Cuffed jeans.

Adam. Pot. House parties.

Summers in Door County. Beach days. Sue's magnificent breakfasts.

Driving around in cars.

Adam. Walks in the woods. Fractals.

Late night omelets. Roommates evolving into friends.

Freedom. My black Honda Civic. Quick drives to Madison.

The Irishman with a quick temper but an unparalleled generosity.

Travel. New experiences. The thin line between strangers and friends.

White rice. Steamed. With soy sauce.

The brief summer with a tall skinny representation of wanderlust.

That infectious laugh.

Beers and food television. Video games. Late nights at bars.

Grilling a tenderloin on a Madison rooftop.

Getting kicked out of training for playing Minesweeper too loudly and giggling too much.

My car again. Road trips. Couch surfing.

The Playa. The West Coast.

The week with a boy who blew glass and brought home organic juice.

Philz. The Golden Gate. Carousel rides with a boy from the Midwest.

Huelo feet. Tiki Hut. Sundays on Little Beach.

Hitchhiking.

That same boy and camping roadside. Walking up a volcano.

Selling everything and island hopping in Asia.

Being warm again. Being lost.

San Francisco. Diversity. Culture.

Josh. Then Goober. Then Logan.

Creating a home. Neighbors. Neighborhood.

23rd Produce. Duc Loi. Sun Fat Seafood.

Basa. Radish. Yamo.

Support. Family. Phamily.

Netflix. Rainy day excuses to do nothing.

Still Goober.

A rack full of wine. Cooking while listening to my favorite songs.

Lazy Saturdays reserved for writing.

Be..

[Made up of lyrics to songs I loved when I was 15 years old]

Be blindfolded. Be obsolete. Be the closest thing. Be hit or miss. 

Stay fucking beautiful. Stay standing on your soapbox. 

Be that winter of '95. Be 7:30 Friday evening. Be between one June and September. Be all I remember.

Stay plugged in and ready to fall. Stay dreaming of waking up. 

Be pictures, apologies. Be the butcher's knife. Be starry configurations.

Stay definitely shaking.

Be a right turn gone wrong. Be just tired enough. Be never quite the same. 

Drown yourself in bread and coffee.

Drive straight off the edge.

Be a beautiful sky tonight. 

Be ten feet tall.

What Haunts You

It hides in the corners of my every day.

It sneaks in under the radar.

It lives in the subtlety of the underlining plainness.

I don't notice it because I don't have to.

I grew up with this Filipino nose

And these almond shaped eyes.

This sun-kissed skin and short slight frame.

And the privilege of Privilege.

My heart doesn't carry with it the strength of my ancestors

The history of my bloodline.

I am a blank slate with the fortune of being embraced

Into a home with love and laughter

And the advantages of my parents.

I didn't want for food.

I didn't want for shelter.

I didn't want for an education.

I never feared for my safety.

I never questioned authority.

I never worried about making it another day.

[Insert here the hardships]

[The struggle]

[The fight]

[I never had to stand up for]

My parents worked hard.
I've worked hard.

Our hardships were significant.

But different.

And yet --

Are still afforded the luxuries of pale skin

And light features.

It haunts me

And yet it has protected me.

The White Privilege of a Brown Girl 

Let's Make a Movie

Let's make a movie called 'Alternate Realities'

Where everything's a little like 'Sliding Doors' but we don't all have to be

Gwenyth Paltrow.

And hopefully it doesn't turn out

As another vehicle for a love story.

We can all slip In and Out of our various Selves as we

Wander from Timeline to Timeline

Discovering which Parallel Universe pans out the best.

Tracing it Back to that
One

Precise

Instant

That a mundane happenstance alters our lives forever.

We can switch swatch through other people's Realities trying to get it

Right.

Making sure the Relationships and Camaraderies

That seem meaningful and consequential

Continue to Intertwine with our own.

Censoring Tragedies and Missteps until

We're satisfied with our Ultimate Design.

Time will push back, of course,

And each Existence and Actuality

Will fight with our self-appointed 

Utopia of a Universe.

Until right as we settle on the final touch,

We swirl.

Us, Our Chosen Companions,

  Our Accomplishments,

    Our Failures,

       Our Perfect Little Lives,

Twirl with the rest of the Alternate Realities.
And leave us tired, wet, and broken.

Shattered memories and 

Splintered recollections.

A mess.

On the floor.

Roll Credits.

Curtains Down.

House Lights Up.

They Said I Wasn't Bold Enough

They Said I Wasn't Bold Enough

To be an individual that was

Interesting,

Memorable, and 

Worth Anyone's Time.

That I was meek

That I was small

That I wasn't Brave enough

  to make a Difference.

So I leapt in.

I jumped into the deep-end with only a slight knowledge

  of how to barely keep my head above water.

With friends for support

With a partner just a phone-call away

But still with the distance of thousands of miles
To keep me feeling alone.

I failed -- 

I failed a number of times.

But each taught me something new.

Be more assertive.

Be more of a leader.

Take action.

Rally.

Be strong.

Cry sometimes.

Admit defeat.

But learn.

Continue to always learn.

To feel the sting of the biting sidewalk

And remember to trip differently next time.

I may not be interesting.

I may not be memorable.

But I might be worth at least a few people's time.

And Bold isn't merely a font face anymore.

Sometimes the name..

Sometimes the name that sits at tip of your tongue tastes like ashes.

And as it slides down the slippery slope across the tops of your tastebuds

It takes on new flavors as you continue to struggle to grasp its true form.

A bite of bitter as you curse your memory.

A smack of sour as you recall the recoil.

A slight of sweet as you savor that one Summer that made sense.

An indescribable umami that tickles your throat when you can't help but salivate for just a little
                                   bit
                                       more.

A smack of salt to sting the wounds, still soft and smarting. Still strange and sore.

And as it swims toward the throat, the build of the hot hot heat.

That hint of spiciness compounding quite covertly until

You wondered if it was even possible that you thought this might be tolerable.

To spit it up and out.

That name -- that elusive name

To rid yourself of that fear and fire as it burns still hot.

Then ashes, soft and slate.

You cast it off your tongue

And reach for another bite.

Dear Insecurity

Dear Me,

I know you won't heed my advice.
I know you want to learn you own lessons.

Make your own mistakes.

Live your own life.

And, by all means, you are welcome to.

But believe me, I've been there.

I've done that.

And I'm sure I'll do it again.

[one]

Heartache is temporary.
But real. 

Oh, so real. 

Feel it to its fullest.

Don't let anyone talk you out of being hurt. Being lost. Being devastated.

But know that it will fade in time.

Sometimes you will wish it faded faster.

Cleaner.

But a part of you will always miss the things you left behind.

The things you forgot to help yourself heal.

And part of you will always hurt because of it.

Each heartache is different.

A snowflake of intricate, sharp and biting pangs.

It will melt in time.

Spring will always follow Winter.

[two]

You are smart and strong and beautiful.

You do not feel this.

You will never feel this.

But wake up some days in the mirror and tell yourself these things.

Maybe some days you will believe it.

Maybe some day you'll be me with more confidence.

More love for yourself.

Try it.

For us.

[three]

Care about something.

It's easy not to..

And I'm honestly not sure how to advise you to do this.

I guess I'm just selfishly hoping you figure this out.

[four]

You Do You.

There's a lot of things I would stop myself from doing as a younger me.

There's a lot of things I would encourage myself to do more.

But the past is all part of me. Of you. Of us.

Hurt yourself.

Hide yourself.

Love the wrong ones.

Take the risky chances.

Learn you own lessons.

Make your own mistakes.

Live your own life.

I'll see you soon.

What Do You Need To Say?

Hello.

I'm fine.

You're sometimes on my mind.

I'm tired.

I'm worried.

I'm trying to get by.

I hate him.

I love her.

I want to say I'm sorry.

You're great.

You're strong.

You'll make it through this fine.

We're here.

We're always here.

We'll try our best to make this work.

Good bye.

Good night.

I'll see you in the morning light.

An Ode to My Shoes

An Ode to My Shoes:

It's impossible to say whether or not you still loved me or not when you gave me them two Christmases ago.

The thought hadn't even crossed my mind.. until a misplaced, 

  ill-timed,  

    poorly put-together joke fell flat on the sidewalk as we strolled

-- fast-paced and sure-footed --

down the steep street that led us away from my home.

My mind traced through the memories.. 

Slithering snakes through a maze of thick-thatched, barred and barricaded half-remembered truths.

Your gifts -- masquerades attempting to pass off as some sort of affection.

Guilt-laden apologies for the lack thereof.

It was my fault for not noticing sooner.

For taking gifts at face value.

For not understanding that the hugs were hollow.

Words were wanting.

Kisses like corpses --

Cold.

Lifeless.

Waiting for a breath of fresh air to stimulate the skin,

  reanimate the soul,

    and remind you of that feeling you thought you felt so long ago.

An Ode to My Two Feet:

Carrying me swiftly, sweetly from one universe to another.

Fast-paced,

Sure-footed,

Callous-strong.

Clad in these two solid shoes.

A gift of a ghost of loves past

and the promise of a destination to come.

I Want to Go Home..

I want to go Home.

But Home is one of those undefined, 

  unknowable, 

    un-understandable

entities that I can't quite wrap my head around.

Home is a mess of unresolved altercations that I should have let go of years ago.

But that I still hold close to my chest

And shield my heart with them..

To keep anyone and everyone out.

Home is a wandering target.

Elusively changing location and slipping from

State

         To State.

Country

            To Country.

Home is full of strangers that I let fill my place when I refuse to take responsibility for my own emotional shortcomings.

I keep her at Plane's Distance.

Home is a current GPS coordinate.
And I've kept myself at 37 N/122 W for a long eight years.

Home is a swirl of feeling like I belong and feeling like I can lose myself in the crowd.

The friendly balance of being seen and unseen simultaneously.

I Want to go Home

But I also want to just 

Be

Here.

So here I'll stay.

Until Home makes sense again.

If I ever let it.

What Questions Does Your Art Ask?

Are You There God? It's Me, Lily.

My art is asking for an ear.

My art is asking mundane questions for the easy-listening audience.

It is not bold.

It is not life-changing.

It merely exists.

My art is a journal asking if anybody's out there.

My art is a way to put pen to paper

      and ask if maybe you feel the way I do sometimes.

My art is simple.

Asking for nothing.

But open to anything.

What Does Your Body Remember?

The touch of your skin, for one.

The humidity of the night.

The sweat caught between the fold in the back of my knee and warmth of your thigh.

The tangle of arms and legs and miscellaneous us.

When we woke, we could feel the change in the air.

The breeze.

The promise of cool and the sweet smell of moisture.

As I motioned to grab something to cover up with, your hand stopped mine.

Our fingers intertwined and you motioned toward the ladder.

We scrambled down from the loft.

The wind was stronger outside.

Blanketing.

Wild.

The sky swirled black and grey.

A rumble of thunder shook the bare souls of our feet.

The tickle of grass between my toes.

A flicker of lightning in the distance.

We could feel the storm coming.

The warmth of your arms wrapped around me from behind.

Your head laid atop my own.

The clouds, the rains, the storm. ..

Approaching.. 

Approaching.

The first soft droplets of precipitation on my arms.

Thin sporadic tears.

On my legs. My bare belly.

Then harder, faster, fatter.

The wet, the warm and the cool all at the same time.

My hair clinging to my face.

Your laugh ringing in my ears.

Your laugh shaking my body with yours.

And we waited in the rain.

Until it felt as if our skin was soaked through and through.

Until we ran laughing for the shelter of the shed.

My Body Remembers.

I Look at Myself in the Mirror and See..

I look at myself in the mirror and I see someone that needs sleep.

Someone that's tired and defeated and lost.

Someone that's searching and trying and reaching and hoping.. 

.. but coming up short and feeling the ache of consistent rejection.

Looking for a job is hard. Moving is hard. Being let down by someone you thought was your life partner is hard.

Life is hard.

Reinventing yourself is hard. Finding your voice is hard. Rebuilding your confidence is hard. Rediscovering your personality as a Single Being is hard. 

Cultivating new skills, reconnecting with friends, trying new things.. all are hard.

I'm not gonna sugar coat this with a life lesson.

Or turn it around with a "But life is also rewarding" clause.

Things can just be hard for now. Tomorrow may (and probably will) be better. 

Things will change. This will get harder and easier in turn.

But for now things are hard.

And that's okay.

Writing Assignment Five: Where Were You Last Night?

It's 6AM and I'm just about ready to head out the door. I do the final pat down: keys, wallet, phone. I grab my pre-made lunch - quinoa, kale, apple. Shelley's on a health kick this month. Fingers crossed for Meat-Filled March.

As I double back for my Transit card, I pause at the creak of the screen door swinging open. Flapping shut.

Adrian's home.

And at such an unGodly hour. I check my watch and note that I have about fifteen minutes to spare before running into the Late Zone. I don't want to ask though. I don't want to know where he was.

The range of answers to this posit -- Where were you last night? -- fluctuate from the mundane to the laughable to the downright unbelievable. And I'm damn tired of wasting my time with them.

Last week, Uncle Addy (Shelley's grandfather's brother, if you wanted to get technical) had spent a wild Sunday night on Mars with a few of his Martian buddies from the War. Throwing back beers. Cracking dirty jokes. And reminiscing about the Good Ol' Days until they dropped him off on our front porch around 4:45 AM.

I hear him drop his keys on the front table and briefly contemplate bailing out the back door, when my phone tweets from my pocket. Curse you, tell-tale device! I silence it but it's already too late.

"Nessa! That you?" There's a jovial tone to his greeting. Last night was a good one it seems.

Lately, and more frequently in the past few months, he has come home grouchy and frustrated. The work he has been doing on his supposed "Doomsday Device" has been hitting a maddening number of speed bumps. He elaborates to Shelley on the specifics and - bless her heart - she takes it all in with patience and grace. She's exponentially more tolerant of his fantastical fabrications and maybe, to a degree, this empathy is one of the many reasons I love her.

"In here Addy!" I beckon, grudgingly. "But I've only got a few minutes," I warn. "Can't be late today."

One morning, I got ensnared in a forty-five minute recounting of a night with the Mole People. Introduced by a mutual friend, Uncle Addy and Grunther (of the Solum Clan, royalty among those who live below the surface) had evolved into great friends over the course of the years. Not often did Addy get to visit the Mole Underground, but this particular evening, he had been practically dragged under to help mitigate a heightening conflict. Considered an impartial judge, he was enlisted to settle what seemed to me a simple bar argument. I didn't retain the details of the whole mess but it culminated in exchanged blows, broken bones and a good deal of blood and dirt. My boss didn't care about the details either and I ended up shorted the hours and stuck with the grunt work for the day.

"Not a problem." He smiles as his form appeared in the doorway. "Nothing but good news today." He winks at me and I try my best to put on my cheeriest face.

I hope for one of the rare mornings when he tells me spent the night reading a novel and drinking coffee at the 24-Hour Diner around the corner. Maybe Poker Night with his College buddies. Or perhaps catching a double feature at the Drive In Theater. The normal evenings were less and less these days. Adrian seemed to spend more time on other planets, underwater, beneath the surface. Shying away from the rest of us. Retreating from us. Tiring of us.

"And no need to worry about time anymore." His face is serene. Almost eerily calm.

Maybe today will be another yarn about his Time Traveling buddy, Lana. My favorite will always be their trip to the witch trial era of Salem. A native island girl, Lana had mastered the art of fire spinning at a young age. With the magical flick of a lighter, Addy lit up her fire poi and Lana bewitched the whole village. Bright trails lit up the area around her. Mesmerizing intertwined circles and hoops danced in her orbit. Too stunned to even believe their eyes, the villagers stared in awe. Tales were born that day. Legends incepted. When the flames receded, Adrian clapped a long slow clap striking clear in the dead silence of Salem. Lana bowed low and long. And again, like magic, the two disappeared.

"It's finally done," he dreamily whispers.

"It?" I inquire. "The Doomsday Device?!" For once, I am struck kind of incredulous. Will this be the last we hear of this particular peculiarity?

He merely nods in response. His face still frozen moon-faced.

I'm deciding whether to delve further into this new mystery or bail as originally planned, when I feel the first tremor. It's short and sweet like an aftershock. Like someone shaking the chair you're sitting on, then letting go.

It's then when I decide to head towards the door. He's too dazed for conversation and now's my chance to escape. As I step toward the exit, a bigger quake hits. This one is longer than I've ever felt. Seeming to get worse with every passing second. I grab the counter to steady myself and as the minutes pass, start wondering, When will it ever end?

I glance over at Uncle Addy and he's still smiling. He's mouthing words at me. But I can't make them out.

A bright light appears from what seems like nowhere. Yet everywhere. It flashes long and intense. Everything is white. Everything is hot. Everything is bright bright BRIGHT.

My retinas burn and I can't make out anything anymore.

Except that smile. That eerily serene smile.
And his moving lips.

"It works."

Writing Assignment Four: I Met Him on the Stairs

My day was already a clusterfuck.

I had slept through my first class. My rushed morning shower doused me with solely ice cold water. My cereal was stale. I was on the verge of running late for my Psych Mid-Term.

And, of course, the elevator was broken.

A cool October breeze snuck into the building as some random student stole out into the streets. My notebook blew open, scattering my already dishevelled notes from my hand to the ground. I rushed to grab them, stacking them haphazardly in a pile and back into the notebook.

The stairs. I'm not sure if a thought can be muttered, but that is how this one felt. Now where the hell are the stairs? My eyes frantically scanned the room, inquiring at each doorway and what lay behind them.

An earthen red door with a well-worn silver "Emergency Door"-style pushbar beckoned.

I pushed through rapidly.

Idiotically, I paused to look up. Did I expect to see all five floors of stairs at once? Was I expecting to view and assess the situation here, from the ground floor? The bottom of the first flight of stairs taunted me with its grey grim starkness.

I plundered onward and upward.

I vaguely remembered hearing another door somewhere farther up open and shut swiftly, but it gave me no pause. I was already in a tizzy. I was already almost late.

It was then that I met him on the stairs.

He was rushing too, but in the opposite direction. Our opposing forces collided with an audible thud and it reeled me backwards into the wall. My notebook dropped from my hands, once again scattering paper like the flyaway seeds of puffy white dandelion. We both reached to pick them up at once, bumping hands in the process.

I looked up to apologize but he was too engrossed in collecting all the notes. He was rushing in a way that felt as if he was trying to be helpful but, frankly, he didn't have the time for it. His frame looked frail and thin. His hair, black and slick. When he finally met my gaze, his light grey eyes were barely visible behind the thick lenses in this equally thick framed glasses.

"Here." He somewhat shoved his collected papers at me.

"Thanks," I offered, trying to convey how appreciative I was of his limited time. He straightened up to full height and I noticed how towering he was. He was like Roald Dahl's Lankiest Skinniest Giant. I paused to consider if he was tall enough to have to duck when going through doorways.

"It's nothing," he countered and briefly, almost awkwardly, touched his fingertips to the inside of the wrist that held my papers. He held my gaze in an arresting stare. The combination of this gesture and look caused all my movements and thoughts to cease for a brief moment of time. Why didn't I jerk my hand backwards? Why couldn't I respond? Wasn't I late for something?

I had no response so I merely closed my gaping mouth and nodded at him. I moved again to take the steps upward.

He nodded back and we parted ways. He disappeared like a swift wind -- the kind that precedes a warm summer storm. He was out of sight by the time I swivelled my head back to look.

As I entered the classroom, I was clearly late. The professor was already talking, the class was silent, and the slam of the door as I entered was a Scarlet Letter of tardiness. I kept my eyes down and slid into the seat closest to the exit. My heart slowed to its normal pace and I tried to transition my brain into Test Taking Mode.

I focused.

And I'm pretty sure I aced the Mid-Term.

As I gathered my things as the end of class, I spotted an out of place page in my notebook. The paper itself didn't match and, as I pulled it out, I realized the handwriting wasn't mine.

"Thanks for the time." The perfect cursive struck me as beautiful. You don't see penmanship like that anymore, I thought.

As I folded up the note, I noticed my bare wrist. The wrist his small slight hand had rested upon. The bastard has stolen my watch! The watch my grandmother gave me in her will. The one with the small simple clock face. The delicate hands. The engraving on the back to "Adela Romesca Gavin."

The bastard had stolen my watch.

Writing: Assignments

My friend Alex and I are attempting to write more lately.

Another friend has been taking a Fiction Writing class at the local college and passing us the assignments. It has been fun to sit down at the computer and type words again.

And to type with abandon -- not worrying about the finished product, putting words on the screen and not thinking about it they are "right" or not.

Writing raw.

I probably will be posting the products of these assignments as I go. 

Please be prepared for writing full of typos and in need of editing. 

Here goes nothing.

La Fortuna: Dancing on Tables

We spent our weekdays at the Lodge. Josh working; conference calls, spreadsheets, meetings. I used the internet to connect with friends. I started (and finished) reading the graphic novel series, Runaways. We lazed in the sun. And, on rainy days, we hid in our room with Netflix.

On Thursday, we decided to grab a drink at the tiki bar. We sat by the barfly nestled on his corner stool. He was from Atlanta, he told us. But that was merely where he got his mail. He chuckled. He was on the road ten months of the year. This winter, Costa Rica. Next Spring, unknown. 

The bartender got us a couple cold beers.

"Plus two shots of rum," Josh smiled. So we shot them. And chased them with the ice cold bubbly Imperial. The carbonation tickled down my throat. 

"And we heard that you could get us pizza," he added. As if this was a feat. ...but, as we were an $8 taxi ride from town, it was sort of a big deal.

"Si," he confirmed and got out his cell. He asked us what toppings and we struggled for a bit trying to convey we wanted sausage. He thought we meant pepperoni. Nope. Hamburger? No, not that either. We settled on what we thought was cheese, pepperoni and hamburger. He called it in and we began the wait.

After the sun dipped below the horizon and the darkness crept in, the man at the end of the bar retreated. "Back to the Rancho," he waved as he left. 

On the next set of beers, a group joined the bar. Three women to our left, one replacing the still warm stool of the Georgian. Two men to our right. 

The two women on the right, a couple from Minnesota. One of the men on the left, their friend from (school? work?). The other woman on the left, his sister. And the last man on the right, a friend from Minnesota. 

After more beers and more shots, the bartender let us play DJ and we started queuing up funny YouTube sensations. Psy was there. What Does the Fox Say? You name it. And just when I had forgotten we were even having pizza for dinner, it arrived.  Still warm, thin crust, and delicious smelling. We opened the box for the surprise of the night. Ham and mushrooms! Ha! No hamburger, no pepperonis..but ham and mushrooms. Famished, we wolfed it down, sharing a slice or two with the bartender and his girlfriend.

Their shifts were over so they packed up and wished us good night, leaving us full reign of the stereo. We brought out the wine and liquor we had in our rooms and continued our own bar. 

Our Tica contingency added 80's Costa Rican pop to the mix. She showed us the steps and we line danced to some of the hits. Then came Journey. The Kareoke video version with the words highlighted as if we didn't know every last one of them.

The boy from Minnesota started taping us for a video he was compiling. Josh was up on the bar. Laughing. Dancing.

And when the last of our box wine had been drunk, we headed back to the room. Bid adios to our Midwestern friends and slept. 

Cool Breeze

The sun was high. Hot. The cloudless day teased us with its lack of shade.

We both were wet with sweat. Backs warm with the reminder of the packs we had just shouldered on the long uphill climb. Our skin covered in a thin layer of dust. Attempts to wipe it off resulted in small dark smears.

In the distance, we could hear a vehicle approaching. The crunch of the gravel road. The low sound of the motor. I squinted in anticipation at the spot where the car would soon appear.  We stuck our thumbs out in tandem.

The silver mud-covered SUV crested the hill and rolled into sight, rocking like a boat on choppy water, avoiding the many potholes marking the road. We donned our friendliest smiles. Slid our sunglasses over our eyes to shield us from the upcoming mini dust storm to be kicked up by the vehicle that ultimately, like the last one, would pass us by.

The driver peered at us through his windshield. His passenger gave a flick-of-the-wrist wave. And they drove on.

The heat enveloped us. The humidity like a blanket.

Two German Shepard pups -- brothers -- noisily hopped out of the nearby riverbed, splashing, biting each other in play. Both covered in water. Mud.

He glanced at his watch to check the time. The sun reflected brightly off its face.

I sighed. Defeated. Waiting.

Then.. We heard it before we felt it.
The trees in the distance hinted with their rustling leaves. Their swaying promised respite.

It was slow at first. A slight breeze that barely cooled the neck beneath my hair. And it stopped after barely a few seconds. I sighed, resigned to heat.

But, lo. It blessed us again with its glorious presence. More prolonged. Invigorating.

It brushed our skin with its coolness. It blew strands of hair from my sweltering forehead. Like that first refreshing sip of ice cold water after a long thirst. The kind you can feel as you drink it. The way you can follow its chill as it hits your mouth, slowly melts down your quenched throat and then settles, happy, in your contented belly.

It covered us head to toe. Like a new blanket. A blanket of relief. Soothing. Cool.

And suddenly, for just those few minutes I wasn't even aware of the road. The ride we needed. The sun. The dust. The sweat.

Suddenly, for that brief moment, I took the time to appreciate a cool summer breeze.

Walking.

Walking, to me, is reflecting.
Exercising.
Exploring.

Gaining a new vantage.
Getting a new perspective.

Finding greenery in the midst of the concrete jungle.

Finding beauty in the everyday.

Appreciating the warmth in the fog that envelopes me.

Grey.

This morning the air hung ominous. 

The sun was up. The streets bare. And the sky loomed grey and opaque.

The palms and neighboring trees rustled in the strong wind. A wind pushing me backwards with each forward step I took. Forcing me back. Forcing me home.

"Go back to bed," it beckoned.

And all I wanted to do was comply.