Sitting at the 17 bus stop, I squint an eye as my gaze passes over the myriad of hotel windows. Exhausted from my walk and the gym, I take everything in. The sun beams brightly against the sharp marble white building. Most of the windows are open, with a soft breeze blowing through. A cross breeze pushes the curtains to and fro, clashing against the window pane. All the while, listening to some new Song I heard. My spine tingles, the hairs on my arm dance.
My bus arrives. Greeting the driver with a “Good afternoon” I swipe my pass. Shuffling to the back, removing my sweater and bag, I take a window seat on the left. I notice the heat on my face, the cars queueing up to park, the homeless man begging for change. I watch the tourists, taking note of their attire.
The 17 begins to lurch forward. Crossing the famous city intersection, I take in the astounding, glistening river. The suns radiance bounces off the calm water like a laser into my eye. I shut my eyes, breathing in the smell of diesel and old upholstery. The same song blares on repeat.
A Memory is born.
Standing with my chest to the sun, I wiggle my toes between the sand. Its orange crystals are warm and ticklish.
The cresting waves kick refreshing salted water into the air. Nothing but orange and blue for miles. The furthest West you can travel before cruising into the Atlantic. The hairs on my arm continue to dance, as another fresh tune crosses the synapse. Neurons fire.
A memory is born.
A 40 degree day.
“It’s too hot to walk that far!” They say.
“Nonsense, good for the soul. Helps me think,” I reply.
Beating down on me like a volcano, I trek onward towards my destination. Power lines guide my way, followed by seemingly endless rows of corn fields and rice paddies.
My hand glides softly across the stone bridge, no more than waist-high. The soundtrack of my life plays. Years of stress melt. Nothing else matters. Only the here, the now. The soundtrack of my life plays. A shiver radiates through my body; onward.
A memory is born.
Walking uphill on thousand-year old stones, the wind brushes off my face. An old hotel, a quiet cafe, the late morning sun and a spring water well. Fall leaves get kicked up by my old work boots.
We take a breather at the old cafe. An espresso and tart makes for a wonderful snack. The old man looks at me, I back at him, and we continue to share tales of the past decade. All the while, the latest songs that have burrowed into my mind play.
A memory is born.
From the Author: There would be no point showing what songs I was listening to during these moments, as you have no visual minus a few pictures. Moreover, the style of music may be horrible to you, the reader. I think that’s part of the wonderment of it.
