Dear Castellar De N'Hug,
I'm writing to tell you I miss you. There's so much I want say, but the words come to my fingers reluctantly. My heart is unwilling to return to the place it made for you. It did the best it could, on the plane, to patch the hole, walling in cobble stones and ringing church bells and splashing waterfalls like Montresor in "The Cask of Amontillado". But my eyes were not fooled. They ran over and over the picture of you, your green hillsides rising peak after peak. They lingered on your flesh colored rock faces and grottos, your mysterious dark caves.
Foolish eyes, I knew how wayward they would be. Denying them a last look at you, I left in the early morning before the sun lit your stones. But flying away from you, irrevocably gone, my eyes knew they were safe from censure and indulged in their watery ritual. I pretended to read my book. Nearby passengers cast sideways glances at me; in turns curious, then sympathetic. As I continued to cry they politely ignored me, guessing I had left a great love behind.
I lost your gift to me, the honey. The jar with the comb, suspended and shining like a jewel, the walnuts soaked in honey, and the jar of the palest honey I've ever seen, made from the wildflowers on your hills. All gone. I carried them in my bag to keep the glass from breaking and forgot, forgot. I had to throw them away. I cursed every Muslim in the world for the security regulations but really, I had only myself to blame.
I feel like I should apologize to you. I was careless with a part of you. Three jars of your essence.
But maybe you should apologize to me. You've ruined me. I used to think I was surrounded by beauty, but now my world lies darkly in the shadow of your memory.
The longer I write, the more you come back to me. The air smelling of thyme, children's voices rolling through the canyon, joining the river, the bells of hidden cows tinkling high on the hills above.
You will not remember me. People will continue to come and go through your streets as they have for 700 years but you will remain unchanged.
As you should be.
I'm writing to tell you I miss you. There's so much I want say, but the words come to my fingers reluctantly. My heart is unwilling to return to the place it made for you. It did the best it could, on the plane, to patch the hole, walling in cobble stones and ringing church bells and splashing waterfalls like Montresor in "The Cask of Amontillado". But my eyes were not fooled. They ran over and over the picture of you, your green hillsides rising peak after peak. They lingered on your flesh colored rock faces and grottos, your mysterious dark caves.
Foolish eyes, I knew how wayward they would be. Denying them a last look at you, I left in the early morning before the sun lit your stones. But flying away from you, irrevocably gone, my eyes knew they were safe from censure and indulged in their watery ritual. I pretended to read my book. Nearby passengers cast sideways glances at me; in turns curious, then sympathetic. As I continued to cry they politely ignored me, guessing I had left a great love behind.
I lost your gift to me, the honey. The jar with the comb, suspended and shining like a jewel, the walnuts soaked in honey, and the jar of the palest honey I've ever seen, made from the wildflowers on your hills. All gone. I carried them in my bag to keep the glass from breaking and forgot, forgot. I had to throw them away. I cursed every Muslim in the world for the security regulations but really, I had only myself to blame.
I feel like I should apologize to you. I was careless with a part of you. Three jars of your essence.
But maybe you should apologize to me. You've ruined me. I used to think I was surrounded by beauty, but now my world lies darkly in the shadow of your memory.
The longer I write, the more you come back to me. The air smelling of thyme, children's voices rolling through the canyon, joining the river, the bells of hidden cows tinkling high on the hills above.
You will not remember me. People will continue to come and go through your streets as they have for 700 years but you will remain unchanged.
As you should be.
1 comment:
Argh. I'm so sorry you lost your honey!! Spoot Muslims....
On another note - This was BEAUTIFUL! Isn't it amazing how you can fall in love with a land? I fell in love with Scotland and I miss it just like I would a person, practically. An interesting phenomenon.
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