Prólogo

  Tears flood my cheeks as my watery gaze consumes the mountains of Honduras for the last time. As I look out the small window of the vast vessel that was soon going  to fly me away from this beautiful country, my heart aches and I remember the precious moments that had left permanent bruises on my heart. I had been here seven days, seven days, yet it only took that short a time to completely change me in ways I never thought I could be changed.  The plane starts moving slowly, then gradually speeds up and the countryside moves before my eyes at a quickening pace. As the mountains become an emerald and gold blur, faces of the people I had met suddenly start flashing before my eyes. The children; Francisco, Iris, Delma, and all the rest whom I love so much. Seeing their smiling faces in the depths of my imagination brings more tears to my eyes. It has only been a couple of hours since I last saw the kids, yet I already miss them with the entirety of my heart.   Then, there was Josué. My entire body tenses at the thought of the 20 year old artist who captured my heart and soul during one last night of perfection. I reach into my pocket and my hand closes tightly around the small piece of paper he gave me with hurting eyes before I left. Perfect Spanish cursive danced beautifully across the crumpled sheet.  I tried to understand the foreign words, but my knowledge of Spanish was still very limited. I had put the note in my pocket hours prior with the decision to wait till I got home and give it to my Spanish speaking friend to translate.  The burning curiosity to know what the letter said, along with the bitter heartache at the knowledge I may never see Josué ever again, leaves me in a state of shock as the plane takes off from the Honduran soil.  My blue eyes still focussed out the small window, I think of how such a small country could have the power to make such a significant impact on a person who had only been there seven days.  Issues I based my life on before I left now seem unimportant.  Problems that were once focal points in my painting of life, are now amongst the blurry background. I look down at the uneven landscape of Tegucigalpa, Honduras for one last heart wrenching moment before milky cotton clouds consume the plane. Unable to see anything but white, I close my eyes and wish with the entity of my soul, to be back walking on that Honduran soil. 

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Outstanding! You've got the knack, young lady. I have one suggestion, and that is to reduce the amount of language you devote to the translation of the letter, because it distracts from the strong emotion and drama you have going. Just a suggestion, mind you.