Monterrey, January Winter
The first thing I notice is the cold that suddenly invades my left wrist. My good companion has been traveling with me for almost a year now. A sudden stream of consciousness (and selfishness) makes my mind shift from the mourn of that which is important, and into the merrier memories that the lost artifact conveys. Cities, landscapes, buildings, all pass through my mind in a second, until the click of the casket closing snaps the brain back to the genesis of the entire gesture…
The cold sits back in.
Where are my yuccas
Where are my yuccas? I wonder as I stare outside one of the windows of a noisy and bustling bus that is taking us, that is me and my classmates to a forest in Western Massachusetts.
Where are my yuccas? I keep wondering as we go past trails of red oaks, maples, pines and hemlocks. The predominant color a gradient of yellows, oranges and reds that reflect the everlasting brightness of the sun. Despite this, despite the abundance, the exuberance of colors, foliage, and shapes, I still wonder…
Where are my yuccas? I crave for those humble plains I call home. That desaturated vastness of browns, and beiges, and olive greens. Those trails where only small shrubs, thorny scrubs, and mesquites can grow. That almost-naked land where the leaves of a yucca appear as a black crown against the scorching sunset light.
Where are my yuccas? I wonder one last time as a friend talks to me. A familiar voice, an unfamiliar language, and then I know, my yuccas are far away, in another country, thousands of miles away.
The first thing I notice is the cold that suddenly invades my left wrist. My good companion has been traveling with me for almost a year now. A sudden stream of consciousness (and selfishness) makes my mind shift from the mourn of that which is important, and into the merrier memories that the lost artifact conveys. Cities, landscapes, buildings, all pass through my mind in a second, until the click of the casket closing snaps the brain back to the genesis of the entire gesture…
The cold sits back in.
Where are my yuccas
Where are my yuccas? I wonder as I stare outside one of the windows of a noisy and bustling bus that is taking us, that is me and my classmates to a forest in Western Massachusetts.
Where are my yuccas? I keep wondering as we go past trails of red oaks, maples, pines and hemlocks. The predominant color a gradient of yellows, oranges and reds that reflect the everlasting brightness of the sun. Despite this, despite the abundance, the exuberance of colors, foliage, and shapes, I still wonder…
Where are my yuccas? I crave for those humble plains I call home. That desaturated vastness of browns, and beiges, and olive greens. Those trails where only small shrubs, thorny scrubs, and mesquites can grow. That almost-naked land where the leaves of a yucca appear as a black crown against the scorching sunset light.
Where are my yuccas? I wonder one last time as a friend talks to me. A familiar voice, an unfamiliar language, and then I know, my yuccas are far away, in another country, thousands of miles away.