We arrived in Antigua to pastel houses in rows that opened--bright, voracious gardens I could not conquer with my camera lens, nor my eyes. It was exactly what I had imagined, an avid reader of Marquez's life, still sweet on the dreams my father described--rainbow hammocks and spiced chocolate; caged birds that neither slept nor sang.
I could see him there, in the mountains and muted colors that crept up, as remembering times I had not lived but, rather, heard. The smoke of the volcanoes both curled and calmed me, the high grown grass almost enough.
Just as in my city streets, those streets of jade could not assuage the yearning; not the velvety cocoa wrapped around tamarind; not the fireworks; not the burning skies.
Still, I am glad to have tasted the fried tacos of his past; I am glad to have walked along the streets he wished for me and wished to sit beside me. To have inherited his eye and heart for beauty, pretense of thick skin and taste for sour, for life's bittersweet stains.
