Today, after finishing up my spring cleaning and jamming out to some Ray Lamontagne, I went on a bike ride and enjoyed this absurdly warm weather we're having. Of course, as these things typically go, it's supposed to snow tomorrow.
Before my bike ride, I laid on a blanket in my back yard and let the sun seep into my skin as I re-read 'What is the What' by Dave Eggers. Perhaps it was because I was reading about Africa, I'm not sure--but my mind was transported to another place. This place was, of course, Ghana. I'm longing to breathe that African air again and to hear the chanting of the village fisherman as they gather up their nets in the morning. Fresh pineapple, recently plucked and succulent, dripping from my fingertips. The hot sand beneath my naked feet as I wander through the rasta's huts looking for Stephon. When I do find him, he's carving salt and pepper shakers out of calabash, rolled herb hanging from his lips and a slight smile on his face. Roots and Culture (his dogs) laying on the floor of his hut, happily panting, their hearts beating to the sound of the drum little Abraham is playing. The children from the village stumble in. They're hungry. Stephon pulls a bag full of bread from under his bench and begins to feed the children, one-by-one. He speaks to them in Twi, even though his first language is French.
I wander over to the gazebo with a notebook, feeling inspired as I always am here. The words flow from my pen and onto the sweat and salt stained paper that rests on my lap. These are words I know I'll read in years to come, and I'll long to be here.
I'll long to be here.
