Its So Hard To Say Goodbye
Every sight is a treasure. How will they all fit in a suitcase? I must take them with me.
The noisy molino and its line of waiting patrons, balancing buckets of corn upon heads of sun-wrinkled Moreno faces.
A mountainous landscape, spattered with volancoes, some I conquered, others awaiting.
The patojo chuchos, gimping along and salivating for your tortilla scraps
.
The colochos, gorditos, camanance-bearing bichos, each one more beautiful and innocent than the next, singing Spanish words in a voice you wish you could capture and replay in your wind-up jewelry box.
Incessant reggaeton, blowing out your ear drums on the chicken bus.
Horchata. Pupusas. Fresco de tamarindo.
A hammock, torn and worn down from well-deserving overuse.
Tiny, cute viejitos, missing a finger from machete use.
Agua de coco, but only served and drinken out of a plastic bag.
BUENAAAS. Salu pues. Mirave.
The gangster feeling you felt the first time someone said to you “Ey, que ondas vos??”
Hijote. Ojo. Amoebas. Well, maybe not so much.
Kolashampan. Salva Cola. Mmm, tampoco.
Chicharrones…pig never tasted so good.
Queso fresco, queso duro, queso con chile, cuajada, crema. Regular cheese?
Mangos verde, mango de clase, mango chile de mata, mango amarillo, mango sason. Regular mangos?
Tamales de pisce, tamales de pollo. Sopa de gallina india. Sopa de pata. Cusuco…
The mud huts, with so little possessions but so full of life.
A quarter bag worth of cucumber, watermelon or papaya.
Clowns on buses.
Its so hard. To say goodbye.
