2/6/10

I spent a day in solitude and on the wings of my bicycle. Every piece of time seemed to rapidly slip together. One of my bosses, a woman, came to clean the hostel. She scoured every surface with aggressive fingers, envisioning the clean benches beneath guests she will never have. Then she sat down in front of me and said, "Tell me about your ambitions."

Her children moved away a decade ago, leaving this quiet farm for West coast colleges. She let me talk endlessly on dreams, visions and philosophies that perhaps no one else will ever hear, listening in stillness to my childish lullaby. "You cannot build a hundred story building without a solid foundation," she said. We talked a long time about raising children, and then she invited me over for dinner.

Her husband offered me mead, which I had seen him bottle and scrutinize for so long, but had never tasted. He poured me a glass made from limes, bright like soda, then a glass made from oranges, strong like vodka, then a glass made from lillikoi, gentle as ginger. He stayed drunk all night. I ate many plates, and she told me how her son used to eat, and how much she would feed him when he came home. It was the first time in a month that I ate with a family, and the first time in a month that I filled my role as a son.