que será, será

My memories, my memories, of Granada, watching the sky swallow up mountains and hills whose homes turned to stars as it reached night and we left Salobreña, the yellow sunset with a silhouette of large rocks that made me feel so afraid, afraid of pure beauty, the soft hands of María and her silky white robe, a woman speaking to her dog in Spanish, the water dripping down from flower pots when they'd siesta and I'd walk and hear every footstep and sweep of the broom. The walks home at night, at evening, mornings, all the time. And I remember thinking over and over, trying to picture how it would all be, telling myself I'd die before it happened because the future wasn't clear to me. But now, that emptiness of my mind that longed for the future, is tainted and fermented with memory, collecting flowers in hand as I stroll. And maybe love is along this path. And maybe I won't die.