The Canvas of Years
Waves of memories washed over me. The smell had snapped me back like a time machine to the little sink in the entry to the dining hall. Suddenly, I could hear the chaos of over 30 men, women and children awaiting their food. I could feel the heat and humidity run their clammy fingers down my spine in rivulets of sweat. I felt the raw excitement, adventure, apprehension and loneliness all over again. All at once, I was under a bucket shower, cooking over a fire, processing sago, swimming in the ocean, dancing under the stars, wondering what life held next when life already felt so full. I opened my eyes and twisted the sink knobs. I looked down at my dripping hands as I slowly returned to the present. The scent of soap had sent me tumbling into the past. And, oh, how much had changed since that moment at the sink; that stepping onto a plane to go away from all I’d ever known to step off again in the place I thought held all that I would become. Memory is a funny thing. I