8 dayze and a life-tyme ago
Gliding past desert mesas, counting the layers of earth and rock; reflections of my people's skin tones. Clay red rocks rise into thunderstorm skies of deep gray, While the twisted fingers of distant lightning storms reach from the heavens to the ground below; and the yuca plants, saguaros, palo verdes y mesquites, even the desert wind, EVERYTHING seems to whisper your name... Maribel. I have traveled 1000 miles and still I cannot escape you, nor the past, my actions, their consequences, the pain. It is like the small rip in the mantel my nana crocheted a long time ago. I put a vase of flowers in it and pretend it doesn't exist, but I know its there. Cutting through central valley cornfields I take the 58 through Bakersfield while Los Lobos sings "Sabor A Mi" on the cd player and everything reminds me of you and me when we were Us. But that was a 8 dayze and a life-tyme ago.