December 4, 2009
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cents
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I love…
75 cents.
To catch a moto from the corner of the street to the bus stop. I like it best with wet hair. It dries in the ten minute ride. The sun is shining as it always is and if there isn’t any wind we make it ourselves. It is a small town, and I know most all the kids. I always pass someone I know. I love seeing their face light up. Because I love them, and the feeling is mutual. I love the slow and fast of riding over lombadas. The rumble of the cobblestones. The sugar cane. The old cathedral. The Portuguese style houses. The palm trees, the old railroad. The people. Each one is special. Each one has a story. A love, a hate, a fear, a sorrow. It is up one hill and down another, over the brass button bridge and through the feira. Only a popcicle in my hand could make this any better, dripping down my arm. And I catch the bus without looking to see where it is going. Because it is going, and I want to go. Someone is waiting for me on the other end.
