Seven. The number of times I've been to Nicaragua. One-hundred twenty-one. The number of days I've spent in Nicaragua. Each time I go, it's better. Each time I come back, it's worse. Some think the heat is unbearable. I can bear the heat. Some think it's too dirty. I can live with the dirt. Some can't cross the language barrier. I can cross it. What I can't do is forget. What I can't do is put aside those sweet faces. What I can't do is go back. What I have to do is get on with things.
Invariably, every time I come back, I am in what can only be described as a funk. It's not that I'm not happy to be home. I love sleeping in my own bed. I love my sweet dog . I love the ease of my daily life. But I miss it. Deep, deep down, lie awake at night, can't overcome it, heart-breakingly, miss it. I sit with my eyes closed, trying to picture their faces, so I don't forget. I see every laugh, every crinkled-eye smile. I hear the buses, the overused horns, the 7am siren. I smell the stale heat, the smoke-filled air, the frying oil on the side of the street. I take it all in. It is not enough to last until the next time, but it has to be.
It's not enough to tell what I did. It's not sufficient to show pictures with detailed captions. Everything I want to say is only there when I close my eyes.
This was my shortest trip, but it has made me the most unsure. I've always come back with a sense of assurance: this is where I belong for now, for God's reasons, for a purpose. Now I'm unsure. All I know is that I'm unsure.
