Westtown, PA | MARVIN J. AGUILAR

Westtown, PA

MARVIN J. AGUILAR | CALIFORNIA Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. (from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice)

I walk outside: Swallows and robins call out to each other, the cicadas chirping endlessly the prelude to a pastoral symphony.

Dry bristly grass brushes against my bare legs the late afternoon summer whispers through the trees and shrubbery a carved trail, a sign someone has been here. The sun kisses parts of my exposed body it shares its radiance with me caringly the cicadas shift their pitch more loudly. Queen Anne’s lace calls me—Touch me. I gently caress the flat tops, acknowledging each white cluster. My shadow impedes on the flora surrounding me. I return to the trail, looking, discovering raspberries, a fiery red, dissolve between my fingers, a soft pleasure waiting to be eaten. I stop. An ant jumps onto my fingers, an unwanted invitation. I guide it back to the land.

Something wraps itself around my left foot. This area is consumed by weeds. The crackling calls of dried leaves on the ground. The trail has taken a sudden shift. Endless grounds of withered wheat. I am frightened. The symphony has reached a melancholic moment. I cannot bear it. My pace quickens. A large tree nearby yells for me to seek its haven of long, leafy branches the summer winds whirl beyond the shrubs a field of rolling hills.

The land fades into the blue sky it is hypnotic. My right foot slightly rolls into the ground, I disrupt a gopher’s burrowed home. A reminder: I am a guest.

I ascend a small hill. The dust below powders my legs. Clouds lure the sun away at the top awaits six cawing crows dancing around a compost heap. The leftovers, the unwanted that reek. A medley of wilted sunflowers, spoiled vegetables, split watermelons. Their lives oozing away in a stew of the last rain for days. The flies interject with their funerary music. A whiff of Death intoxicates me, repulses me. I must leave. The hill flattens. I briefly look back, a crow’s gaze follows me. I make haste. The ground pulsates louder and louder. The hill rises again. The trail disappears. On my left are fields of endless rows of golden corn hidden and protected in their vibrant green husks. The sun emerges again, it walks beside me as I descend into a pathless meadow.

A trickling sensation on my arm pauses me. My finger traces a drop of perspiration, gentle, soothing motions each hair craving for a second longer. The sun’s light illuminates my skin. Patches of reminders: An elbow of ashy white Pennsylvania bitter winters a forearm with tints of cinnamon and copper from the days of Miami’s sweltering summers. Miami—some days it is lost in crevices of memory. Some days its sights and sounds resurface, celebrate and trigger: Trailer park dreams,

Mami yelling Oye, Que Pasa! The beats of Latin America permeating through the streets: Drumming, heels tapping, laughing, and yelling, a wave of spirits move throughout my body. I close my eyes. Remember, remember, remember.

The blissful glow dissipates discomfort encroaches I am frightened. Anger, sadness, fear, frustration, anxiety wrestle and scream at one another. You thought you had forgotten. Pain, oh the pain. Uncertainties, insecurities. It still seems to never go away. Life was getting better some days. Talk listen allow yourself to heal. This surge reverberates too long. Open your eyes.

I am out of breath. My chest compresses. My stomach knots. A deep inhale of summer afternoon air enters my body. The sun cloaks me as I sigh calmly. The sun slowly moves away reassuring me it will return the next day. The school’s clock tower rings from afar, I am almost back. Moving through the meadow, the bees negotiating their love with the flowers. Towering red brick masonry approaches me the edges of the meadow gradually sink below a paved parking lot. The last sounds of outside, stay behind. Maybe. You will continue to process with the most scarred and burning parts who want to protect themselves. I will come back later.

For now, a familiar door awaits telling me work that is ahead. Yet lingering in my thoughts, dried on my skin and clothes, the remains of an afternoon solitary walk outdoors where no one goes.