a conversation in three parts

Jorge sat by me on the bus again. And I think there have been few moments in my life that I’ve treasured so absolutely as those ten or fifteen minute spans. I never know when our paths might cross. When the doors will open him into that transitional space where time starts and stops at almost ever corner. His eyes wide with delight. A smile as resolutely deep and genuine as the lines cutting casually across his forehead. I’m in love with my fascination of him. The way he folds his hands politely in his lap – nods knowingly in my direction on approach. I wonder if he too hopes that we’ll be on the same path. His timelessness and my inability to define, to categorize, to capture him in any tangible way renders him prophetic. Sometimes all I want to do is figure out the magic that fuels that gleam in his eyes or the soft laughing quality that underscores his speech. Today we spoke about his favorite subject. His daughter Emmaline. She’d written him a letter about the way life progresses in other parts of the country. Places he’s probably never seen or possibly imagined. He shows me the envelope – crisp and clean – and produces the letter. Proudly translates a few chosen sentiments into English. And I look at the handwriting on the creased notebook paper and feel enlivened by its power to possess – to transform itself into a palpable emotion. And feel lucky that this stranger on a bus decided to share such important moments with me. Sometimes I wonder what ever attracted him to seek me out. Before we depart, I hope that someday I’ll learn the lesson of the magic. At my stop, I wink and place my hand on his shoulder. Who knows if I’ll ever see him again.



The mail produces a much longed for letter from Jak. Even the envelope, battered and worn, seized on my emotions like a grasping hand. I’d forgotten how his words always weave some kind of imaginary spell on the very act of opening my eyes – or drawing breath. How the idea of him transforms itself into one of the tangled invisible strings that keeps pulling at me from across the world. He is currently a man without place. Determined to find the inhabitable space that defines who we are and what we become. Jak’s quest for home is like a religion. His search for heritage – holy – something to believe in. He’s taken some kind of steps that I don’t clearly understand to renounce his American citizenship. I know it’s a political and social statement, but he doesn’t pause, in this context, to examine the relevance of the emotional statement of this casting off. The letter captures the high points of his recent travels, but the words and conveyance are weighted with a general feeling of hopelessness. Of the unforgiving transgressions of the inescapable boundaries not located on maps. There have been no signs, he writes, of where he might be called to remain. And he’s at once captivated and afraid of the violence and extreme states of poverty he has encountered. Sometimes I wonder if he’ll travel that continent for the rest of his life searching for something that doesn’t really exist. Sometimes I hope he never stops believing. The last lines read as follows:
I am not meant to be a man of this world. And, yet, there is no other world where I can find myself meant to be.



Filled with my own span of inescapable emotion, I pick up the phone and dial. Jay breathes words into the phone like a razor. And I’m just thankful. Without apology or analysis. I’m filled with a cockeyed joy for having a life that becomes so rich in consequence of other people. Overcome with the desire to say I love you and mean it.