The proprietress, short and narrow except for the soft, swollen
expanse of her waist, sweating brow and a stained plaid apron that smelled of
garlic, brought my meal, course after course, each better than the last for no
reason other than I was hungry. There was nothing neither fancy nor different
about the taste, only that it was simply seasoned and pure comfort food; just
the right amount of garlic, tomatillos and chopped tomatoes, the chicken,
tender, the sopa savory and soothing, and just what I needed at that moment.
The chilled papaya water washed down each course and prepared my mouth for the
next. When dessert came and the bowl of gelatin set before me, I smiled. I
looked over at the old man and his empty bowl. The cubes of multi colored
gelatin exploded in my mouth like fireworks of my childhood memories. The taste
was bittersweet.
I always believed that with time I would grow a thicker skin. That, with age and experience and all the trials
inevitable with life, I would hold steady against the smallest of
tragedies. But instead, my skin had
become thinner. Experience does not necessarily bestow a stiff upper lip. But
rather, it can make one open to everything, like wind through bare limbs. I am
nearly diaphanous.
I wondered if life would be far easier if the old man had
known nothing other than his chair; if the caged birds had gone straight from
the nest to the confines of a wooden box. What we know is what we know. It is
how we gauge joy, love, loss, and indifference. If they had known nothing but
confinement, how then, could they know of or miss their freedom? But I wondered too, if late at night, early
morning when all sounds fell silent on ancient cobbled streets and along the
shores of the milky lake, when even the spirits slept who guarded the thin
barrier between life and death, if the old man and the caged birds didn't
dream, still, of running along the fecund banks, and taking flight at daybreak
across a sweep of treetops and volcanoes.
I finished my Jell-O and glanced over at the old man. His
gaze had not shifted. Silent, the birds hung on the wall. One particular
songbird, a soft pale green, who had called out only to affirm that he was not
alone, seemed to be looking in my direction.
Like Jack, I wanted to open their cage doors and set them free. I
thought of offering to buy the songbirds from the proprietress, but I knew that
just as soon as the cages were emptied, they'd be filled again. Here, there was
no magic.
When I left, I was full and heavy hearted. I inhaled deeply
the white tangerine blossoms and walked into the bright light of the plaza. I didn't know whether to head back to my room
and weep for all those in captivity, forever fated to lives of confinement, or
hike the long road out of town that wrapped around the lake and surrounding
islands, cradled by dense stands of oak, cedar and pine, and farther up still,
the embrace of volcanic mountains that kept watch over the lake.
I decided to walk.
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