dear growed-up me,

i have this terrible habit of wishing time to go faster, faster, faster.  of counting down, counting toward, counting away from something.

adult me, i took today to pause and write down all those things that i never want to wish away, those things that i'd bet for you, in the future, you're wishing you still had, you're wishing you could still know, now that you don't live in cambodia any longer.

because it was the same when i studied and lived in rome. rarely was i able to suspend the daily to appreciate the manna that is italy. that is cobblestone, that is early morning walks on those worn, wobbly stones, that is a piping hot, frothy cafe latte, that is a quick italian verb review while perched on a centuries-old curb, vespas and peugeots whizzing by, whipping my hair.  never would i have believed that soon, not but a few months later, i would ache in my stomach, in my limbs, in my soul, for the stench of rome.  of coffee beans, of piles of rubbish on street corners, of sizzling mozzarella and fresh basil, of rain pounding ruins older than God.

here and now, i want to remember. for you, for growed-up me, for a woman that i long to believe has moved past wishing for a future.

remember the grin that lights upon a face when you decide to smile at the stare, rather than scowl.

remember the rank corner of the market, flies glancing to and fro off the raw meat, vendors lazily waving a fan back and forth, to discourage the landing of their tiny feet, to encourage the buyers, hurriedly searching for the best cut, to take home and fry, sizzle, up for their family.

remember the sweet sound of rain, the release of the heat it brings, and the sigh of relief that accompanies it, from you and everyone around you.

remember the melting away of hours as you languidly read a book in the solid wooden chair with the red, polyester cushion that your host mother gave you after she saw your husband crouched in that same chair, mattress wrapped about him like a cocoon, attempting to stave off a sore ass stemming from hours on solid wood by a butt used to cozy sectionals and memory foam.

remember all the books, all the sentences, all the words that ate you up, gave you perspective, offered you insight, pushed away your boredom, added a small drop to that growing but yet shallow well of wisdom.

remember the cold, cold water taking your breath away each and every single instance of bathing, and the frigid joy that water brings as it sends shivers through your marrow and instantaneously lowers your internal temperature.

remember the sunset on the water, with a fruit smoothie in hand that's honestly half fresh fruit and half condensed milk and sugar syrup, while gazing at the crinkle around your husband's eyes as he laughs at one of those ridiculous comments you love to say and thinking to yourself, how is this is my life, and when was it deemed that i was worthy of such joy?

right now, i'm remembering it all, and i'm wishing on the present, and i'm counting all the moments wherein i alight upon this joy, this life.

here in the now,

cambodian you