What I See That She Does Not

The noise of traffic. Not just the same din, but every particular beep, the roar of acceleration, the screaming trucks and buses pounding down the streets. The rap music in our hostel. The voices of backpackers paying their bills. The Spanish heard and spoken. Yellow waitress caps. Sweet breaded pastries. Scrambled eggs with onions and tomatoes. Milky coffee. Narrow sidewalks. People walking. Cleavages. Clouds giving way to sunshine. Rain clapping down on rooftops and then gentle as leaves dropping. A baby cries and cries and just as suddenly stops. Raucous voice, cooing voices, plaintive voices. Rust orange and Latin pink and green resurrection green. I wonder what was the last color Arabella was aware of when she took her final breath? Was it red, like the ruby ring Mother gave her in childhood? Was her mind all aswirl and fuzzy those last seconds, or did she have a pointed focus? Was she leaving or arriving? Departing or embarking?

Dusk, night, lights on, lights off. Potted palms. The shock of sewage as it hits the nostrils. Ants, mosquitos, dogs. Ice cream. How can all these things be so alive and real and pungent, yet she is not here to inhale them? Not only is she not here, in those last moments she seemed so ready and willing to let go of them all. How? She left behind so much!

She wouldn't be here in Colombia if she were alive. She'd be in New York City, exposed to the same mix of dogs barking and strewn trash and dawn emerging. But she's not in New York City. How can this be? Over a year later, I still ponder the mystery.