Post 3

Even the drive to Palccoyo was harrowing. 

I was seated by a large window which was delightful and charming when spotting a llama and bowel-rippingly terrifying when the side of the bus was hanging over a cliff. Closing my eyes didn’t help. My whole body tensed and I squealed like a frightened mouse. Branden thought it was hilarious. 

I did not. 

Somewhere inside me, a song started to rise. It was “Rainbow Connection” the lullaby I’d sing to Cecilia as I rubbed her back and everything that was deadly and wrong in her world mercifully disappeared - at least for the night. I hadn’t been able to sing that song since Clayton’s death but on the bus, it soothed me. A welcome visitor. An old friend. A comfort among the cliffs.

Finally, we arrived and as we all tumbled out of the bus, my mission kicked in. Squealing mouse no more, I was ready to do this. Even if the odds were against me, I was determined to give it my best. And believe me, the odds were stacked against me. Here were, as my road-dawg Kez likes to say, the indisputable FACTS:

• We were at altitude. 

• I occasionally suffer from exercise-induced asthma. 

• I was the oldest in our group. By a decade. 

• Some of the others were professional athletes and trainers.

• They were faster than me. No doubt.

• I’m a slow-ass, methodical hiker. In the water, I’m a fish but on land, I refer to myself as The Honu (Hawaiian for turtle). 

PS: There was not a donkey in sight. 

My plan was to head off by myself. While everyone else was posing for The Gram, I would sneak away, go at my steady pace and get a strong lead. If I was far enough ahead maybe I wouldn’t fall so far behind.

This plan was thwarted immediately.

I was called back to join a ceremony announcing our arrival to the ancestors, the mountains and honoring all who’d come before us. Valerio dribbled, what us Southern folks refer to as “Florida Water,” in our palms, handed us flowers to use as offerings and coca leaves to bless then chew. Believed to ward off altitude sickness, coca leaves are bitter and earthy and for someone like me who hasn’t had so much as a sip of caffeine in twenty years, they will get you high as hell. 

The day prior, during a tour of several sacred sites, Valerio passed out coca leaves and I just popped them in my mouth without even thinking. Ten minutes later I was skipping around stones, talking non-stop and in a great fucking mood. It took me another ten minutes to realize I’d been chewing cocaine. 

So I opted out of the leaves for Palccoyo. 

After our prayers, a herd of llama galloped towards us giving me the perfect Instagram distraction. Everyone whipped out their phones and I took off by myself. Not too fast, not too slow.  Go, honu, go. 

For a long time, I walked alone in silence. 

Palccoyo is a quiet place. You can hear your own thoughts as if they’re spoken out loud. I felt Clayton riding along in my coat pocket. I wondered if, this time, I’d break down when I released his ashes. Spreading him in the Vegas theaters, there’d been no room for my grief. I was too busy eye-balling the security guards while grinding bones with the heel of my shoe. 

But there, on that stone trail, there was nothing but space and quiet and me. Plenty of room to cry and feel and lose my mind. Is that what would happen? And if it did, would that feel like freedom? Is that what I wanted? My freedom? Freedom from what? Suffering? Grief? Remembering those awful final days?

I heard the shuffle of steps and looked over my shoulder. It was one of the professional trainers, Bryan, jogging to catch up. He slowed slightly until I smiled, giving him visible permission to join. A few quick steps and then he matched my pace. Our walk together began. 

We called ourselves ‘The Bookends’ since we were the youngest and oldest in the group. In the jungles, we’d developed a beautiful connection, him confessing his secrets and me keeping them. 

I listened as he talked about his relationships, rather, his hook ups and let downs, the sad way that ghosting has replaced goodbyes and I remembered the confusion and swirl of being in my 20’s, pulled around Manhattan by my addictions and libido, calling that sexual empowerment. 

(Lord, you couldn’t pay me to repeat those days.) 

Bryan is a hive, young women buzz around him. They want the taste of his honey on their lips. There’s a frenzy to it that I recognize - that urgent need to know what comes next and who will be with you and how to make sure you’re doing everything just the right way.  

As if there isn’t time. 

As if mistakes are the enemy.

We’re very affectionate with each other, Bryan and I. We link arms, both in desperate need of loving, careful and unconditional touch. Touch without an agenda. Intimacy without sex. I miss the daily brush-bys in the kitchen, the nightly kisses of marriage. I miss being held and adored. I’m grateful for Bryan’s affections. I’m honored to receive and embrace them, knowing my age is my safety, his safety, our safety to express ourselves and practice love in a brand new way. 

We passed a tiny, steady stream, tinkling against the rocks, an aquatic wind chime. Bryan knelt to record the water’s music and I held very still so as not to disturb his efforts. He was down on one knee, smiling up at me. I wondered, “how many young women have wished for this view.” I smiled back and listened for a moment then left him there. I felt strong. I wanted to capitalize on my energy and get ahead so when the others caught up, I wouldn’t be left behind. 

Don’t be left behind.

Don’t be left behind.

He left me behind. 

Clayton left me. 

He left.

He left.

It’s not breaking news that abandonment is my kryptonite. I’m an adoptee with a list of dead friends and relatives long enough to rival a CVS receipt. But losing your forty-year-old husband to cancer lays down a whole other strata of trauma bedrock. 

I’d gone into years of isolation, hiding and healing in Hawai’i, undetected in the fray of Covid’s quarantines.  We’re just like everyone else, right? We’re just staying safe at home. This isn’t despair. This isn’t suicidal ideation. This is social distancing. That’s a good thing now.  

Bryan’s affectionate presence was a reminder. I was traveling in the company of twenty-four other seekers. Thoughtful people asking questions, digging deeper. I could no longer hide. I was seen, I was witnessed and I was heard. Maybe that’s why I left Bryan by the stream and took off. Maybe that’s why my pace was faster than I realized. Maybe I wanted to be left alone. 

Maybe I wasn’t hiking. 

Maybe I was running.