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Show aunt, Jerry, his daughter, and her husband, a group that typically fished together every summer, now staying in a motel that bordered the world's highest navigable lake. Because Jerry wanted to see Machu Picchu before he died, we spent our frequent flyer miles, hired a guide to take us on the Inca Trail, and found ourselves a year before his death exploring the city of Cuzco, the belly button of the world. It was an amazing trip, but tiring. Tiring for all of us. The altitude, the constant travel, the food, the water. We were weathered. On the last day, we were gathering our suitcases and backpacks one last time. Ivan, our guide, was trying to hustle us out of the hotel and into the van that would take most of us, eventually, back to Lima and our flight home. There was a chance we would miss the plane. The commotion-eleven adults trying to get organized and into a van, some of us staying longer, some leaving that night, others the next day-filled the tiny lobby of the hotel and bounced against the low ceiling and narrow door. Amidst the chaos, Jerry came into the lobby, unsteady like a child, eyes wide in alarm. Ivan, Ivan, he said, his voice matching the shakiness of his limbs, I have lost my tickets. We stopped, all of us, bags half zipped, and looked to Jerry-the man whose knowledge and experience had seemed as boundless as space itself-willing him with our eyes not to be fragile. Please, I thought, please do not show me this tender part of your belly. I do not want to know that you are anything except what you have ever been. I do not want you to be anything but whole. And in my silent willing, I refused him his humanity. 247 |
