On a bus traversing the Portuguese countryside, I stare out the window and at my reflection in it. Khaki pants ending at my knees, my tanned feet resting on the chair in front of me. Faded black cotton tank top with straps too thin to cover the blood-red bra underneath. Chains falling over my chest, a circle hanging just above the hemline, the other chain is in the grooves between my chest, a metal cross lying below the underwire. Glasses, barely visible under a salmon-colored floppy hat. Tracing my image is a rolling yellow field, spotted with patches of stout bushy green trees.
I am leaving the best place I have ever been.
Twelve short hours ago, I was wading in the crystal clear shoreline of Sagres, the south western most spot in Europe, where our ancestors once thought the world ended. Though the water was to my waist, I could still see my toes wiggling in the small yellow grains of sand below. As a wave rolled in, I cut through it with my hands, then my head, and when I came up for air, I was yelling, not because of the temperature, but the shock of being so refreshed.
But no one heard me.
The few people around were at a distance and in a trance of their own making. My knees gave out, and I sunk into the water and paddled my way further out into the blue.
I didn’t want to leave.
The way the orange red cliffs concealed the thin-grained beach, like arms hugging a valuable, it didn’t seem like this place wanted to see me go either.
At the top of the road leading back to town is a little dark wood building with a small sign saying, “Last Chance Saloon.” How easy it would have been to climb the white stone steps, open the door, and walk into the dark room, straight to the bar and declare, “I’ll take a cold one.” And that’s it. Find a bed, a job, and a barstool that fits.
But I had my chance, and I kept walking.
Used by permission of the author
"Kelly Riley Barron is currently residing in Chicago. Please send your feedback to krbarron@gmail.com."
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