Melancholy

I never thought I'd ever really have to admit it. Usually, it just happened; it was just there--sans dispute. Fair enough.

Today, I feel the need for it. I feel the restless desire of my soul long for it. That's right.

I want the cool tiles beneath my bare feet. the rusty railing fencing in the balcony of my room. I want the freedom of the sky atop my cement roof. I want the smell of Raid, of old furniture, of fresh paint, of Suavitel and cold plaster. I want the bedroom-sized bathroom, the transparent shower curtain with the bright fish, the echoing doors.

I need the long walks to somewhere, the definition of time. I need again the unchanging breeze, the immobile mountains, the back of his motorcycle. I need the warm sun, milkshakes from the mercado, sabritas from the corner store.

What I wouldn't give, what I wouldn't do.

Mexico... its valleys pulsing with richness, apprehensive, waiting. For me, one valley in particular throbs with expectancy. One valley awaits patiently my arrival, as I await my ticket out of Hell.

Every day passes, and slumps in the another. One day, I'll be free. One day, I won't be confined to four walls.

I just want it back: the possibility of seeing once more my grandmother bustle about the kitchen or my grandfather tampering with his how-many-year-old radio by his shed in the backyard. At least once more, I'de like to walk onto the warm cement and see the countless fruit trees in our large yard, or the lavadero and rose bushes leading to the front gate. I want to lie in bed into Sunday afternoon in a tank top, fuzzy covers writhering between my long limbs, eyes closed, arms open, TV on.

The telephone rings, I'm on my way. Into the bedroom-sized bathroom with the transparent curtain I go.