I am leaving 6 weeks from today. Writing it gives me a suffocated feeling.
I am going back to America, LAND that I LOOOOVE (from the mountains, to the valleys...) and I often ask my God
WHY?
because I basically have the most awesome life ever. I get to look out my bedroom door at lime trees; listen to children laughing while the rooster crows atop his perch on Ysidro's lawn mower. I get to roll my rumbly old jeep down the ragged road of El Callejon, crammed with 6 or 7 people, a lunch box and some water jugs while kids run toward us calling out my name, "EMI!!!" I get to spend hours mixing paint colors, encouraging muralists to keep on painting amid the heat and bugs and rain and dirt. I get to take profound truths leaving in Spanish from Francisco's lips, translate them and send them on to English hearing ears, watching eyes widen or close depending on how the words are received in the hearts.
Martina squeezes me tight in the mornings on my way to the breakfast line. Natan rolls his eyes and shakes his head, not quite ready to greet the day with cheer (or my smile).
I have an incredible life.
Only 6 more weeks of Chinola juice. 6 more weeks of Sancocho. 6 more weeks of dodging motorcycles, of passionate worship, of kisses on the cheeks, of brightly color-coordinated women and waxed and preened men, of copy shops being out of paper and grocery stores being out of bread, of ice cream shops being out of ice cream and restaurants being out of cheese.
6 more weeks of junky old pick-ups loudly selling mattresses, platanos (a do' peso') and mother-in-laws.
And 6 more weeks of my beautiful friends.
O Jarabacoa, what am I going to do without you? I have loved you and I have hated you and I have laughed at you and also with you. I have cried with you, turned my back on you, invited you back in and spilled my heart onto you. I will never be the same.
