Thanksgiving

The sun sears my skin as if I walked beneath a microscope's lens. Merciless.

The gravel shifts sandy-like beneath my sandals that pull at my feet. Dust and exhaust fill the air. My eyes dry up and my eyelids flutter. my throat is chalky and gasping. And my thighs. They burn. The mountain roads steep and relentless.

I press my palms against each thigh, rythymic and clomping. I push down and negotiate myself forward.

Stop in the market for a beer. Creole. Horns and shouts. Dehydration. Smile and squint. An achy face and burnt out throat. The throb and pulse of music. Screaming. Goats wailing and children crying. Children laughing. Children arguing. 

The market. Motorcycles and women pushing produce. Wheelbarrows. Sweat stained burlap and creased brows.

Then the corner. Hellos and bonswas. Raging. Tap taps lean around the bends. Grab an elbow to keep from falling.

Little hellos and nods of recognition.

A gravel pathway. The smell of steep ravines and greenery. 

Smiling faces, bound to chairs, peering through wrought iron balconies. 

Bouncing up and down. 

Taking my bag and pulling me by the elbow.

 

Ear splitting grins and detailed descriptions of the day's ongoings.

I am home. 

I am safe.

I am loved.

I am grateful. 

I am thankful. 

And I hope. And I pray, 

That I never forget.