Sitting on the bench in my underpants, sweaty and half green from the freshly cut grass sticking to my body, proud of a job well done, with a beer in hand and the intoxicating smell of food coming from the inside of the house, filling my nostrils. With the sound of purring cats in my ears, I look afar upon the green rolling hills painted with a patchwork of golden wheat fields on the background of dancing forests defying the breeze. I think to myself this could be a lifetime.
It was in Galitia among the centennial oaks and chestnuts where I saw an old man sitting on his simple wooden bench in front of an old house, that could also have been a hut, leaning on his walking stick, resting from all the days that have passed before his eyes. He didn’t care about all the joyful pilgrims, full of enthusiasm, as we were on the last leg of our journey to find absolvation in the old churches of Santiago de Compostela. Ignoring the movement of life around him, he sat there, his eyes staring beyond that what could have been seen, upon the moments long passed that now tickled his memory as a warm remembrance. His lips in a barely noticeable smile made me wonder, what was he thinking about? What moment of the past brings such serenity and peace to a life that is on the verge of dissipating into stories told by others.
He stopped his elation and looked up into my eyes. I was startled. In his eyes I saw myself. It was not an old man sitting on the bench, but it was me. My body suddenly felt tired, aching from my toes to the end of my spine. My vision blurred and my heart slowed down to a beat barely noticeable. I am an old man sitting under the chestnut tree. In a flash my life unwinds before my eyes and I feel confused. The breathing gets faster and faster as I lose sight of myself and the world. Everything fades away. I gasp for air as everything slows down. My mind wanders away, slowly leaving my scrambling brains. I try to put in a last effort to make some sense of reality twisting and torquing around me, but to no avail. I give up as everything changes to a cacophony of colors. And then I remember.
I remember her stepping from the house in a ragged dress covering her body, a gray tunic covered in a patchwork of colors, like she was a painter’s apprentice. An artist in the making with dotted colors worn as badges to prove her skills in the crafts of the Arts. Barefoot, walking on the grass towards me, I felt like a dwarf in the presence of an elven witch, falling under her spell. She leaned towards me, as I was trying to get the machine started. Her lips were just a breath away from my astounded gaze. She smiled and offered her help. I was awestruck by the mundane simplicity of her presence. I felt naked in front of her as I couldn’t grasp the shocking beauty of the moment.
Like a match tossed into a forest fire, my infatuation burned fast and bright until there was nothing left but a pile of ashes and a black slim trunk of what was once a proud me. I never leaned forward and kissed her. I haven’t told her I liked her. I haven’t tried to make a lasting bond of what could be more than a desire. I am making memories where there should be living experiences. A hug, a kiss, a fuck. I always falter. I pull myself back, hide the desire as fear conquers my actions. A fear of rejection, of exclusion, of being laughed at.
Her meowing cats announce the food is ready so I step inside while the Sun is slowly sliding behind the horizon. When I wake up with a hangover, the magic of yesterday subsides. I know this will never be a lifetime. But a moment which will now pass into a memory and stay there as a monument to my infatuation with the landscape — and with her — until I quietly, hopefully with a smile, fall asleep on my bench under the chestnut tree.
