We were planning a trip to Pilar to see the river and hopefully some ducks. “I got gas today,” she said. “Filled it up. Enough to get to Pilar and keep on going, away from this sad town…”
I know what she means. The desperate, empty side of living in a tourist town comes to the fore when looking for a home. But the consequences of my rootlessness no longer fly. (“This will not do,” she tells me in the bathroom, boring deep into my eyes.) I think it’s time to buy again, in other words. It could be here, it could be there—but we are here, and where is “there”?
Along the river in Pilar, walking across the wooden bridge. The beauty of the water and the hills, the sunlight crashing through the clouds and lighting up the golden cottonwoods, the quiet, even as the wind gusts from the south… “I want to live on Camino del Rio Grande!” she yells out to me, not so gloomy any more. Easier said than done, but I know what this means.
Baby got her mojo back, and I did good. Everything, no matter what, will be all right.