Alone On Uneven Cobblestones

Her eyes may shine, she is Guatemalan, a woman with glasses and a smile. My eyes hurt, weary with blur. Everything moves whichway inside black and smoke on the rise in the plaza. People pour out of the yellow church like cool thickened buttermilk or translucent wasps bound together. I wonder what to make of the happy frenzy here. Funereal in form and parade like in process, the event takes shape in time. Incense perfumes the November afternoon and I stand alone on the uneven cobblestones. I alone on uneven cobblestones.
The cobblestones and droves of brown people plunge forward on pilgrimage with Christ on the cross carried on their strong walnut shelled shoulders. My inclination is to follow wherever, and this is what I do on Thanksgiving’s first Sunday, searching for some thread of gratitude to grasp or hope to grab soon, or if not, perhaps later at least in the throng. At least some grateful thought for later like a small dessert in Paris at night. Egg custard, caramel and cigarettes pervade the restaurant air. Crème brulee brought and served for one. There alone as well.
There alone in Paris as it is in Antigua today. Guatemalan cobblestones contain memories of centuries or more I’m sure. Though stones so uneven won’t remember me whether Paris, Prague or Antigua. Of this I am quite sure. Horns blow bluesy over these stones reminding Paris of Prague. They remind Paris of Prague, pints of beer and the girl in gray beside the fountain with flowers in her hands. She held white flowers in the mist.
The wasps have all flown far, blown by the day’s final breeze while this buttermilk has been drunk and thickness is no more. And what remains on the cobblestones right now is what is left of Christ, as he breathes and heaves his last. Bows his head and dies. His head bows down, expiring.