Lifted. Lifted off from the mundane, off from
complaining, sadness, the sense of despair. Lifted closer to heaven. I listen
to the wind. I smell Lorca’s azahares and
think how he loved Andalusia where Arab, Jew and Christian lived in tolerance in Al -Andalus in the eighth century. I watch the sky. I know the
ending of the day. Men are still working. One hammers. Cars race home in the
distance on Avenida Mate de Luna which means to be killed, of the moon, two different moments juxtaposed in a name. The beautiful avenue lined with trees leads to the San Javier mountains. I must show by example to the children how everything
is possible. I know because I do not give
up despite years of obstacles. Lifted into abundance.
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