Saturday, July 20, 2013
The Memory of Mangoes in Mexico
Today, before the coffee touched my lips, the child was screaming. His voice is loud, his eyes wild, my body still rooted in sleep. Now there is calm. I hear cartoons on TV and sometimes a son is laughing. The air smells of popcorn, hot butter, thick crusty sea salt in the shaker. Light spills from the pink lamp across this white paper. I slide ink over blue lines. My handwriting is abysmal. I'm dreaming about Russia and the moon and rotting apples in Annie Dillard's cellar. Will anyone ever eat them? My mouth still tastes of ice and coffee, cold on my warm tongue. My memory is dancing over mangoes in Mexico, in Leila's kitchen, on Joshilyn's computer keys. My cup is red. My shirt is green. This pen writes black, and I feel at peace with myself.