Mateo: Clouds are often magical. I didn’t think I would get there. It’s been 27 years and the spring stuck around a lot longer than we both thought. I saw these clouds lead me to that special place, by pointing at the ground with the shadows, much like an indecisive index finger. These mountains kept me locked in, but I still searched diligently, in the places that I knew and remembered. There was a tree nearby. In the 50 mile radius, there was a patchy cottonwood tree next to a once boisterous creek and I recall we carved our names on it. I was going to meet you there on the 2nd of March, in 1961. I made 30 cents an hour and didn’t know your last name. I found out later it was Henley. And I couldn’t pronounce it. Braceros had to make their way back home after the season came to an end, but I knew I had nothing to return to. Everything I needed was here, waiting by this tree. So why did I not meet you? Why did I leave you there to wait? Did you wait for minutes? Hours? Days? I hope your love has not fermented into hatred for me. I hope the only thing that faded has been the grief, and not the spark in your eye. If the tree still stands, I will find it. If our markings have weathered like a monument on bark, I will find them. It’s taken me 27 years to realize all of it is fleeing. All is fleeting. All of it. Except you.
Felt good to have a writing sprint after such a long while. This one was prompted by one of my prompts on IG under the hashtag #icprompts. Check them out!
Be well. Make art, make haste.