People of the Sun

I remember leaving on the plane
I remember hot, sticky introductions in foreign buildings and houses, the manner and custom as unnatural to my body as the climate felt.
I remember smells of fermentation in the old towns, traditional cooking wafting through thin windows on the stale summer breeze.  What would be comfort scents to a native of this place, upon returning home.
I remember wide-eyed excitement of the new. . .trees, land, people, things.  A childlike curiosity awakened.
I remember lush green rice paddies in unexpected places, between apartment buildings, down side streets, adding green rounded life to it's squarely sharpened surroundings.  Trains to every direction, shops that never sleep.
I remember building a kind of life, routine, in this curious new-ness.  A familiar sequence in an unfamiliar scene.
I remember the wind's gentle caress on blooming sakura branches, inviting the flowers to one last magical dance.
I remember cherry blossom snow.
I remember awkward stares, averted because of discomfort or. . .excitement, I couldn't tell which.
I remember being constantly the topic of conversation, in a language I wasn't supposed to understand.  The foreigner, the other; no matter what.
I remember rules and order so unquestioned, so absolute, I couldn't breathe.
I remember the mountains, away from everything.  Nearly unused, deserted roads carved into their untouched, forested sides, that I climbed, more and more often, higher and higher. . .
I remember closing my mind- but I don't remember why.

Yamagata, Japan

I remember leaving on the plane. . .

and slowly. . .

it receded, as if into a dream.  Shaken awake, clarity, seen with a different eye.

I remember. . .remembering. . .opening. . .to returning again.