The Edge of the World

The language is changing. Pulling in to Tarifa reminds me of Big Bend, where one world ends and another begins. 

The mountains of Africa are just across the sea.

The bus ride from Cadiz was mostly fields of sunflowers, maybe a million, and windmills, their long pearl arms, the same shade as the Queen Anne's lace at their base, slowly sliced through the memories in my soul. 

I studied each lone caballero we passed to discern Don Quixote. Why was he alone? Had he lost Poncho? 

I love windmills, but they make me melancholy. I am always reminded of Greg taking me to see the Guadelajaras for the first time to see the ones across that high ridge, simply because he liked to lighten my heart.

We went through a mountain pass called El Paso and I cried again. I detest people stuck on the past. It is a choice, I swear, and yet... like bubbles from a deep spring below the water, the memories randomly surface and overtake me. 

Life.  Who invented this?