The Past Is a Thought Away

The past is a thought. The coastal fishing town in Peru was charming its upland was bare and light brown, with roads looking like scars caused by a triple Bye-Pass. The sky was enormous, the biggest ever seen but was unmotivated, not a cloud around. Teresa is a short, lovely woman in well-filled jeans. Ah, jeans, one wishes for the skirt’s reappearance. We hired a car and drove up the bare hills. The driest of landscapes weighted down by dust Tiny villages, four houses and a cantina, not a place for the young, Lima was their dream. At the top of a hill, we stopped, and afar the Pacific glittering green living up to its name. We were in love, the transient kind disappearing in the morning light; told each other lies and enjoyed the sweetness of dreams. We drove back before darkness, the road narrow. Teresa worked at night, with many trawlers docking. A stolen moment by two people whose youth had passed us by, but we remember how sweet it was.