April

Disclaimer: I usually write pretty realistically, to make it easy to convey what I’m experiencing here. The following is an example of how I write for me – more creative. I hope this reveals another layer of understanding.

Kyrgyzstan has seeped into my pores like a fine dust, leaving on my skin a gritty residue. Constant friction leaves me raw and tired but I cannot sleep. Am I changing? Am I growing? I sculpt awkwardness and cultivate its forms on my heel. Lean into your discomfort they said. I’m leaning so much, I’m almost lying down; but no, I will not surrender.

Faces and tongues that were once new I feel as if they have always belonged to me, or me to them – though we don’t always understand. I cradle my hours, frame in my mind the moments I never want to elude me. Time is elusive here; I feel older somehow.

Stallion reds and hushes of greens, stable yellows, and violet flurries guide me now, always alive. When there’s nothing else there’s always color. I look forward to the freshness of vibrant mornings, solitary walks, humming thoughts.

In the village, miles away from everything and nothing, I sit with the women and they give me tea, bowls of sumalack, homemade naan. I made a wish on the stone in my sumalack, lucky me, then gave it to six-year-old Monha Liza. Her toothy smile broke my heart, filled me with hope. Riding home past fields and farms and poverty and life, the urgency of childbearing shakes me, and I cry. Silent tears for my unknown future and unborn children. I’ve never been so sure.

Naked, I examine my body; fingers trace scars etched in fleshy mauve. I look on the outside how I feel on the inside: soft and imperfect, altered. I think often about the impressions left on me and the ones I blindly, carelessly leave behind. Such fragments, such deep gashes. I should be more careful.

Terminals and hotels, Russian taxi drivers, conversions come so easily now. Exchange rates, cultural exchange, interpersonal exchange, change, change, adapt.

Hand wash; soak in suds, scrub with scratchy bars. Rinse and wring, wring and rinse then hang dry. Green clothes lines and cheap Chinese clothespins. My socks and underwear are exposed and dripping on my balcony for all of Aravanskaya to see.