Thursday, March 27, 2008
Under A Callous Sun
My plane landed in Palm Springs at around 10 AM on April 26, 2007, and I didn’t have any way to get from there to the campground, so I stuck to my original plan. Wait at the airport until there were some people to share a taxi with, since alone the fare would be over $60. I picked up my hockey bag full of camping gear from the baggage carousel and went outside to find a bench hidden from the overpowering hostile desert sun.
I’d been sitting on that bench for several minutes when I saw a woman walking towards me. She moved slowly in the midday sun, carrying a wooden box that looked like it might have been holding her lunch. Her hair was a mess of white curls, as if she hadn’t washed it in anything but sweat for days, and her clothes were as wrinkled as the bits of exposed skin on her arms. She sat on the bench next to me, mumbling incoherently. I’m not sure if she even knew I was there.
She opened the box. Inside were photographs, some colour, but mostly black and white. She picked up the one on top. A family standing in front of an old house.
“John,” she said, the words falling from her mouth more than being spoken.
She set the photograph down next to her, then took out another. A man standing next to a small boy, probably his son. Then another. A man and a woman. Then another. And another. And another, all the while talking to herself in a desperate, hushed, and trembling voice. A few photographs later revealed a black rosary that she picked up and held in her shaking hands, pressing it to her lips in prayer. Then, one by one, she put everything back in the box, exactly in its order, and before she stood to leave, and before she closed the wooden box, she wiped the tears from her face.
“I wish you were here right now, John.” ¶ 7:33 PM
I’d been sitting on that bench for several minutes when I saw a woman walking towards me. She moved slowly in the midday sun, carrying a wooden box that looked like it might have been holding her lunch. Her hair was a mess of white curls, as if she hadn’t washed it in anything but sweat for days, and her clothes were as wrinkled as the bits of exposed skin on her arms. She sat on the bench next to me, mumbling incoherently. I’m not sure if she even knew I was there.
She opened the box. Inside were photographs, some colour, but mostly black and white. She picked up the one on top. A family standing in front of an old house.
“John,” she said, the words falling from her mouth more than being spoken.
She set the photograph down next to her, then took out another. A man standing next to a small boy, probably his son. Then another. A man and a woman. Then another. And another. And another, all the while talking to herself in a desperate, hushed, and trembling voice. A few photographs later revealed a black rosary that she picked up and held in her shaking hands, pressing it to her lips in prayer. Then, one by one, she put everything back in the box, exactly in its order, and before she stood to leave, and before she closed the wooden box, she wiped the tears from her face.
“I wish you were here right now, John.” ¶ 7:33 PM
