For Pat

you inhaled
and consumed all space.
the room held its breath.
you exhaled
and were gone.

two days
of fever and pain,
nothing to do.
we changed
the cloth on your head
and held your hand.

two months
of popsicles
and cold drinks,
afternoon visits.
you fought sleep
when we were there.

seventy-four years
of hard work
and much to do.
you carried
a red bandana
and a pocket watch.

you smiled
you loved
you were loved

El Sur

It takes about a week to start to adjust to life in the South again:

Fall changes to Spring.
Pounds move to kilos.
Push doors open instead of pull.
Greet friends with a kiss.
Usually two tries to light the oven.
15 loads of laundry post-trip to recover (given the volume vs drying space ratio).
Four meals instead of three.
The grocery experience.
Signless Stops at intersections.
Nearly everyone stares at me.
Playing the piano.
Recovering Spanish.

I was still lingering with French on the first days with my brain not having understood that crossing the equator means I need to find the other words.  I've slipped into acceptance that making a salad now takes at minimum 30 minutes because all ingredients are as you would find them from your garden.  I discover again gratitude for the women who, when it's obvious I don't understand after two attempts in Spanish, reach into their memories for an English word or two.  I try to remember patience when I'm limited in the things I can do, knowing it's all a journey.

The home away from home becoming home.

Mon Chat Mange*

Mont Tremblant, Quebec
September 2017

I took a two hour (ish) flight.
I read three books.
I walked kilometers.
I exhaled.
I started to relax.
I stumbled through French.
I laughed.
I felt grateful.

Thank you, Canada for a peaceful last look at the North side for a little while.

*Title courtesy of Duolingo and its occasional nonsensical sentences.