Home

R and I are in southern Spain, wandering through Casares, an Andalusian village of white houses cascading over a couple of hills above the Mediterranean Sea. Across a parched valley of olive and cork trees, beyond the sapphire water of the Strait of Gibraltar and through a dirty mist of what one local told us is a broiling Sahara wind called levante, we can just make out the Rif Mountains of Morocco. At sunset, El Rif appears to be draped in a glowing hijab of eggplant and lavender.

But it’s midday in Casares, and the sky is a mind-boggling blue over the towering castle ruins where we’ve taken hundreds of shots, as if we’re the last two photographers on earth and have about five minutes before our camera batteries run out. The sky is so impossibly blue that it makes my eyes water, or maybe I’m crying from the ecstasy that only this degree of blue can produce. I want to lie on a hot rock, die in this perfect state of azure-ity because life doesn’t get any better. About then, I hear a familiar metallic sound that isn’t  R’s camera clicking away like a cicada on a stone pine, and overhead a giggling griffon vulture knifes through the blue.

IMG_5771

Vivid as a lucid dream, a picture pops into my head of a blue sheet flapping on my mama’s rotary closeline in Van Nuys. California, when I was nine. I know. Weird, right? How can the Spanish sky trigger blue sheets in the San Fernando Valley? Sure, we had bluish skies back then, but they were usually bleached to a powder blue by three-digit heat waves or smogged down to the color of sand. No, I thought, this memory is coming from something else.

I lure R down to the centro with a promise of beer and tapas at La Bodequita where our friend Manuel works. He feeds us the best gaspacho in Andalusia and lets us paint watercolors from his roof. We wind our way down streets so steep and narrow, so requiring of focused foot placement that I know it’s only a matter of time until I’ll slip on a cobblestone and break into a pile of shards. But I’m a lousy concentrator, especially in 90 degree heat, and then there’s that sound.

“What’s that noise?” I ask R, who can focus on his art for days and who has never fallen in his life, as far as I know. Right now, as he guides me through the minefields they call calles in Spain, I’m gripping R’s hand so hard our blood can’t be circulating.

We stop, look around, look up, and there it is, a cosmic flapping and whapping of sheets in the wind. One of them is blue. They are hanging from a balcony railing and behind, in the shadows, a woman watches us.

IMG_5783

Only they are my mama’s eyes and she has been crying behind a blue sheet pinned to a rotary clothesline. She steps forward. The wind whips the sheet against the center pole. Cloth slapping metal. A unique sound.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” I ask her. I’ve never seen her cry before.

She pulls out a tissue from the cuff of her sweater like mamas used to, wipes her eyes and tucks the tissue back under the cuff. Her face is puffy and mottled all the way to her chin. She smiles, takes my hands, enfolds me in her arms, squeezing me so tight I can’t breathe, so I hold my breath.

“Princess.” Her voice is thin and high pitched, as if her vocal chords are made of wire. “Princess, Daddy went to heaven this morning. He is with God now.”

I pull myself away from her, look past my mama at the blue sheet and understand that it is a flag waving goodbye to my father.

“You okay?” R asks me. “Wanna go see Manuel? Have a cold beer?” He pulls me down the hill like I’m his child, making sure I don’t trip and shatter into a million pieces.

“Yep,” I answer taking one last look at the balcony as a young woman comes out to take in the sheets because they are dry.

11 thoughts on “To Sheets! To the Wind!

  1. My dear Susan, this is such a beautiful story. I am still licking the salt off my cheeks. Also your photos are something else, nothing short of brilliant. XO XO

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I like how you set this up—patiently providing descriptions and background—concrete–before ushering us into the magical realism–the timelessness, the borderless realms–where the healing occurs–not just the healing, but the other layers of narrative, so blithely exposed to the afternoon breezes—hanging like blue sheets in a tight alleyway—a link to the past more than a link to our own past.

    Like

    • Well, thank you, jd, for your thoughtful response. The magic is really seems to be here along this bit of Mediterranean Coastline. One just has to wander around in it until the spell is cast, then get down to the business of writing. Maybe it’s like that everywhere, but we always look so far out…at least I do. Or maybe it’s the heat.

      Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s