The last of my pesos are sitting on the vanity, next to my winter coat which was begrudgingly pulled from the closet. I have utilized katana space, bargained with deities, and conjured my inner Tetris playing 90s kid to close and lock my suitcase. I'm dressed in layers so I can slowly remind myself what it's like to be cold.
The sun mocks me, warm and bright on the horizon. Having hidden behind clouds for much of the previous week, its sendoff elicits a raised eyebrow and silent gratitude that I escaped sunburn again this year.
In the first part of my breath, I will tell you that I don't want to leave. That the peace to be found here tugs at me and speaks in the chatter of the birds in the trees, the roar of the waves, and the cacophony of notes wafting on the air from the performances scattered across the grounds. In the second part, I know that I have to return to my world to keep pure the sacredness of warm nights, midnight, solitary lost in thought walks through bamboo and palm fronds, and the glamor a floppy hat and simple charm around the neck can provide.
Ahorita. A concept of time in short distances, uncertain except for context. This is not how I feel about my looming departure. The 2:30 flight is on schedule, glaring at me from the screen of my phone. Checking it is like digging for a splinter; painful but necessary surgery.
Today is a series of "and then". Wake, shower, dress, /and then/ dread reality's persistence. Board the flight, /and then/ wait. Land, /and then shuffle/ through the cattle chutes back into the country. Find my second gate, /and then/ take out a second mortgage on the house to fund my airport dinner. Board, sit, land, deplane, /and then/ find my luggage, my ride, my keys, my bed. I will be holding tight to my Zen, hoping not to lose it, snag it, or break it along the way.
Thank you Mexico. Our time was short. You leave me breathless and wanting more. Ahorita. May our next time together come ahorita.