Sporadic

Does it count if you are in a different country? Does it count if you feel too full? Small girls chewing on broken balloons; crawling on the steps with Styrofoam on their lips. Mike Stover was the only person who could pull off lace-up Crocs.

I want to touch my mother’s face. Run my thumb along the cheekbone; trace the skin above her eye.

We visited Jebel Shams early in the week. Jebel Akhdar later on. It was beautiful, although there was little to support its title of “The Green Mountain”.

The muscle behind my shoulder has started having spasms. I try to sleep on my left side, one knee cupping the other. But I can’t.

The children in my Nizwa home stay were bountiful. And destructive. When I arrived, a small blue bike had recently been operated upon, both of its wheels removed and lying in exhibition next to the frame. By the time I left, all sides of the estate were littered with skeletal spokes, tires twisted like rubber bands, bolts here, rims there.

Piranhas.

I know that my words are becoming more and more dizzying. I am sorry. I think that if there was a single story to tell, one with a “Once upon a time”, one that could be concluded, I would tell it. Instead it’s just swatches; fraying squares.