As I waited for the city bus in the rain, my memories carried me back to another rainy afternoon, far away. I pulled the drawstring tight around my hood, pulled my hands inside the fur lined sleeves of my city coat. Today is a bad day to forget my gloves. At least the outside of my coat is waterproof, but the wind is strong and cold is finding its way in at the seams, up under the edge; the waterproof coating has already worn off the boots I wear to work.
It was a late storm that caught us unprepared at the top of our trek. I'm pretty sure I had Indian-made tennis shoes on my feet, and no fur-lined coat. The backpack helped keep my back warm, but the cold water ran down and soaked my kurta and jeans. We were young, though, and it didn't really matter. We ducked down into the shepherds' hut, laughing, and sat close together to keep out the cold. Some of the shepherds shared their woolen shawls and blankets, and they used up some of their precious firewood to heat up the smokey hut.
The lights of the bus finally distinguished themselves from the other rush hour traffic. I climbed up, gratefully looking back at the stone pillar of the church that had broken the wind during my wait. My cell phone rang in my pocket. It was my husband saying he'd been happy to come pick me up at work so I wouldn't have to wait in the rain.
Drying out on the bus towards home, my thoughts range many highways I have traveled. I want to tell my stories, to share my experiences. I want it to be worthwhile for others to read. I also want to join my highways, span the oceans separating them. There is really not that much distance between my rainy afternoon in Delaware and a high sheep pasture on the side of a mountain in Northwestern India. Is there?
It was a late storm that caught us unprepared at the top of our trek. I'm pretty sure I had Indian-made tennis shoes on my feet, and no fur-lined coat. The backpack helped keep my back warm, but the cold water ran down and soaked my kurta and jeans. We were young, though, and it didn't really matter. We ducked down into the shepherds' hut, laughing, and sat close together to keep out the cold. Some of the shepherds shared their woolen shawls and blankets, and they used up some of their precious firewood to heat up the smokey hut.
The lights of the bus finally distinguished themselves from the other rush hour traffic. I climbed up, gratefully looking back at the stone pillar of the church that had broken the wind during my wait. My cell phone rang in my pocket. It was my husband saying he'd been happy to come pick me up at work so I wouldn't have to wait in the rain.
Drying out on the bus towards home, my thoughts range many highways I have traveled. I want to tell my stories, to share my experiences. I want it to be worthwhile for others to read. I also want to join my highways, span the oceans separating them. There is really not that much distance between my rainy afternoon in Delaware and a high sheep pasture on the side of a mountain in Northwestern India. Is there?
