I've been trying to express the feeling of complete wholeness I've felt in recent days being back in my hometown of Houston. I can easily go the movie route--the final scene in Titanic when DiCaprio triumphantly applauds Kate as she descends the spiral, decadent staircase. Everyone is applauding. If life were as simple as the relationships we strive to fulfill, the "heaven" scene just about hits that pinnacle. But it's also a bit self-serving. Why am I surrounded by my family and friends as they applaud me? Am I that self centered? Is this indicative of how I treat others?
I can go the way of the existentialism, the thought that the individual creates their own consciousness. Humans, therefore, in our infinite wisdom (was that sarcastic?) determine their own meaning for themselves. Sounds so great. When I was jet skiing on Lake Houston I will admit a sliver of this conceitedness awoke within me. There was a moment when the sun hid behind the clouds and the ripples of the lake turned a grayish blue. In that pinnacle of self-contentment, my thoughts went back to God. Wow. That's all I could muster--a wow. Of all my classes in descriptive language, fiction writing and poetry, the one word I share with God and the world is a "wow." So much for being some great human being.
In the midst of these descriptions, the best way to acknowledge the feeling I had was to simply express them the way I always have--in sharing the experiences. Some of the people you may not know. The in jokes you might not get. But I share these moments as if you were there sitting next to me. That's the best way to honor the moment.
Grandma's kitchen. The setting has changed somewhat. The oil painting Jesus does not remind me of the guilt of tortillas filling my belly. The table feels smaller but more intimate to. Close enough to pass the bowls of vegetables back and forth. Recipes remembered and practiced over years of dinners and occasions. There's something about fried chicken that transcends memories, the sense of my grandmother's hands. Working the breading into the meat, the delicacy of hands that have been worn from labor, love and age.
Old viejita lying in bed, simply because their legs aren't strong enough to hold up their frames any longer. Her skin was the texture of silk, unlike skin is supposed to feel--rugged and tight. Nails glisten with purple polish that remind me of cascarones eggs.
Ninfa's house. The traditional colors of spanish culture--the reds, the yellows, burnt browns and parrot-feather green--adorn the several rooms. Catholic reminders hang in crucifix, the family portraits capture her children in their best poses. One of the patients in the house/nursing home is a woman suffering from spina biffida, perhaps worse. The patient's mom has permanently removed her teeth from biting her caregivers. It's probably the only motion she can muster. Her arms sit curled above her chest as if she's awaiting to be tickled--frozen. Her feet twisted and tiny, and I'm thankful they are covered in kid-sized white socks. I want to at least say "Hi" but whould she even know it? Otherwise just seems rude. Talking as if she weren't in the room.
Road trips. The short ones in Houston where conversation takes the place of talk radio and top 40 hits. There's a flip side to being in town you're familiar with. You notice the new storefronts, the expressways widened for traffic. But you also remember the old as well. Like dates, awkward memories and the laughter you once had when you had no direction. Street signs road map my sins.
And eventually the road trip ends. We were chased out of Arkansas with lightning storms. Tennessee awakened us with a sunset that flirted with the mountain top fog. There was a moment when I felt we were driving into a cloud. I could have. It's that easy.
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