Like making love in the monsoon season.
I awake to the chill of my own body regurgitating against damp sheets. This may be one of the first sunrises I’ve witnessed in my entire lifetime. Six am and the breeze outside has finally dulled, although the salty tropic air still seeps in through the screen walls. Mexican jungle weather. Warm pulsating days and nights like frozen mountaintops.
Last night I found her hanging, Maggie. Random high school classmate. Inside the bathroom-like stalls we use outside the yoga palapa, she sits with white feet. Cold and clammy, aimlessly falling to the grassy hill. I open the door and see her head bobbing, thin smile against even thinner lips. Straw rope tied around her neck leading her elsewhere. I contemplate whether or not I should wake her (save her) (kill her)? Afterall, I’m not god. I’m not her psyche. I shake her feet back and forth, rocking motion like we’ve been doing on the stone floor. Finally she recovers, sits up so that the rope loosens. It hangs like a necklace from paradise around her neck. The bruise is stunning. Purple and blue circle, the perfect artists line.
…In morning yoga class tears drip in between my lashes. I feel spiritually drained and exhausted. The ocean before evening practice would have been an ideal soother. I needed some alone time on the beach to gather my memories and un-remember all of yesterdays’ dreams.
