What does Morocco feel like?
It is my icy toes, trying desperately to pull heat from my muddy black shoes. The pitter patter of raindrops on my hair and face and hands as we wind through the crowded streets. And the sunshine that slides down over my skin and cloaks me in sweet, glittering warmth.
It is the itchiness of the worn blanket that has sheltered every member of my new family. It is the uneven and unyielding pillow that consistently wakes me to remind me that, in this country, softness is the exception rather than the rule. And the settling of heat that wraps around my body as I drift off to sleep.
It is the bumping, jostling, bouncing of the bus that tosses its passengers from side to side, and the crushing of toes from a neighbor’s unsteady foot. The bodies against bodies against bodies as my life overlaps with those of my fellow passengers. And the plastic bus seat that provides me with a haven of privacy as I sink below eye level of those standing around me.
It is the gentle touch of elderly hands that slip over mine as I yawn and settle further down into my blankets. The firm, genuine, enthusiastic embrace that takes me by the shoulders and pulls me closer, closer, closer. And the softness of cheek touching cheek in welcoming kisses.
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2 comments:
aw...I wanted to know who wrote it.
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