Sacromonte at Dusk

There is a certain slant of golden light that peeks into my windowpane. Like a path of honey that leads into the old center of the city, gripping my feet and propelling me forward as a bee would follow the scent of a flower. There is a certain slant of golden light that pools on the hills behind Sacromonte and spills into the cuevas tucked into the mountain. It outlines the faces of young people sitting in the grass and in the flowers. Tickles the new budding plants, bending with the weight of the coming summer days. It pours from the instruments of musicians playing against the outline of the mountains, and tugs at my waist as I climb up, past the somewhat organized city and into the disorder of the hills beyond, only a trickle of a path to follow. There is a man grinding something into a rock with a big stone next to me as he watches the drum, smiling into the setting sun. A cueva with a windowpaned front space– I see my face there in all its refraction. A small garden, and Carmen practicing flamenco with her eyes wide shut. There is a certain slant of golden light that settles into my bones like the smell of las dulces when Semana Santa nears. A certain kind of light that never seems to fade, even into the late hours of the night. Light built into the buildings, light in the eyes of the people passing me by, light caught in the wine, or the light of a long day– but a certain slant of golden light. And I hope to tuck it in my pocket and carry it with me wherever I go. 

(thank you Emily Dickinson, 320)