i haven’t processed it all yet.
the wet, freezing air. possibilities of movement everywhere.
our breath, heaving, pushing, and hanging there.
the tents like caves, our hearts like rivers.
the faces of Peruvian people- etched with carvings of the land, the history, the politics, the hope and the patience. the throb of excitement in sharing the stories. the slow, winning smiles.
i sit here now, in the lull of air conditioning, surrounded by the theme beige walls. i bore myself, looking at the wrinkles on my hands. thinking about the scars on my right ankle from tripping on mountains, skipping across the sky.