sirimiri
“Effort is only effort when it begins to hurt.”
Cemetery of Sunflowers
the day started with the swallows and a purple sunrise that cleared the clouds with its smile. A breeze shook the bugs loose, and the orange-breasted birds hopped in the olive trees. The spider web weaves twice through the rosemary bush and is speckled with corpses. Odd how some species have such a penchant for clinging to the dead.
Brunch was served with simple dishes, majestic by their color and smallness. Dark figs and sweet jams went well with the four hunks of cheese Neus brought from France. While she scooped small bites of kiwi, I sipped my coffee from the small sepia-toned glass. Each cup bore several sips. I had three and as many bites of cheese.
Neus planned for us to bike through the small towns outside Girona. We threaded a path to the sea through the fields of grapes, green apples, and figs. Sant Jordi Desvalls, Sobranigues, Flaca, Verges, Torroella de Montgri, L’Escala. The dust coated my legs and lips, so I didn’t feel the burn until my skin split and filled my mouth with blood. Our white bedding smeared by blood kisses.
We stopped at a cidery with a pool for lunch. Muscles in a dark red sauce from a can, green olives soaked in anchovies oil, and crisps with apple juice. I dunked the crips in the oil and speared the small morsels of meat into my mouth with a toothpick. When we arrived at the beach, storm clouds had rolled in and the wind sputtered sand into every crevasse. Neus went swimming, where the children did cartwheels and the white waves carried a small shark toward the banks.
The gale took my romper and put hair in my mouth. The grapes were soggy and the crackers too dry. I shucked my clothing to the sand and presented my breasts to the waning sunlight. With Clara in my ear, I shut my eyes and moved into the landscape I once called home. Sand tastes the same, no matter where you are, and for a moment, I was on Kitsilano beach with the Pacific waves. When Neus returned from the water, we packed up and pushed our bikes through the golden dunes.
I pedaled slowly uphill on the border of the highway. Shadows coated the ride home. My skin was too tight; I realized my sunburn. We took slow and steady dirt paths to the beach, combing through the cemeteries of sunflowers with our tread. We took a straight line home on the cement streets with the local traffic. Men who whistled and honked in my direction stopped me three times. Some languages are universal.
We biked 60 km in six hours; four to the beach and two back to our dwelling. My back ached from sitting upright for so long and my feet swelled from the running shoes. I devised a method to tie my purse to the handlebars of the Brompton, so I was not bearing the weight on my body. Meditation is more pain than pleasure. Twice I thought of giving up and getting off the bicycle, and twice I was saved. The first time, by two fat orange dragonflies who stayed with me, a little ahead of the handlebars. The second time, two white horses stamped their hooves to ward off the flies.
I sang the Pavamana mantra silently and begged the couples to give me the strength to endure the road home.
Dwindling Daylight of the Lily.
My passions burn brightly and so high I taste the sunlight with my baked lips and fingertips. When my body burns, I feel most alive. The blood in my mouth and eyes is a little lick of what’s inside me. I relish each sip. Too much is never enough, and I whither and crumble like the burnt leaves on the tall flowers—ashes to the dirt where the earth cracks and those orange-breasted birds hop about, looking for worms. I am dust as we arrive home and the sparrows sweeping over the pool wink at my arrival.
I survived, and is that too much?
Is it enough to say I love you? Or does the sentiment need an action to follow through with the intent?
Will the birds figure out that the ground is too hard to bear bugs?
The fat spider keeps spinning its web around the rosemary and the carcasses multiply.
Once home, I stripped off my shoes and jumped in the pool to soothe my nervousness. I pour glasses of white wine into the green glasses that remind me of my jade ring—a prom present from my parents. Sip after sip, I become the blossom of the dirt. I dine on cold slices of golden tomatoes and dark chocolate by the pool, my fingers and toes spread in the wet and spilling seeds into the night as secrets.
The same lines torment me, the physical endurance softening the rigidity of my understanding. I do not know what I’ve read and must repeat the lines until the moon appears and tells me enough. A man is guiding me through the underbrush. It is his voice I hear through the blanket of minnows and krill. A mermaid sleeps in my heart and she is struck by immeasurable love. As I sleep, she stirs. Eyes like jade with a tail that sweeps fear to the underside of the stone where the barnacles feed. There is a place for everything somewhere.
Photo source.
