Cotton Balls
We all assume that teachers teach. This is self-given. But we all who teach know very well that we anticipate a clean whiteboard to start the class. I get so annoyed when some math teachers are too tired to clean the board. Teaching is a tender balance between spelling new scripts and erasing the old ones. Actually memory and forgetting are like two sides of the same coin of being. Sometimes we crave for some memories but other times we wish to forget. The actual class time is filled with writings but the board is empty before and after.
When I stretched out my first glance from the plane, I saw the Coronado bridge. I know my brother lies some ten blocks down. And I noticed El Canon mountain as bald as it always is. Then I started searching in the far horizons my beloved friends, Gorgonio and San Jacinto. I could recognize the second, but not sure if I saw the first. Our plane was speeding further and further away. I just stole my last glance of the mountains that were blocking Alpine from my view. My vision was blurred with some hot dew and when I opened my eyes, San Diego was left behind.
So many memories to preserve. When I first moved to San Diego, I made a habit to bring one rock every time I went to a new park. I called them memory rocks. I could clearly identify which one came from where till I had two dozens or so. And then memory rock garden kept growing and memory kept fading. At the end, memory rock garden became a site for me to visit, and try to remember all the random places I had been to and the laughters I had shared.
A thin veil of cotton-balls came from nowhere. They were everywhere as if today was a huge parade of puffballs. We were cruising against the wind and the clouds were hovering around. All I could think of was of the last weeks cleaning. When I entered the house it was all clean. And the walls had fresh new color. I have left it the same way. But the walls retained and savored some memories. The holes where I hung some images, the marks the kids made when they were playing with crayons, and some coffee stains: all that that preserved the memories that made my house are now wiped clean. Another white-board for a new teacher to run his show.
The eastern star had moved to the west and the cotton-balls were turning gold. Slowly the sky wore a thick blanket with some strands of vermilion. And soon the star dived into the pool of vermilion and all that was left was the display of colors. When we landed, New York was completely drenched. I think my friends in San Diego caused all this rain to welcome me in my new place. The new place of uncertainty. The new place of beginnings. The new place of anticipations. The only constant, Buddha said, is change. I think it is better to say the only constant is newness, is creativity. For the cotton-balls came out of nowhere, made a display of colors, and turned into pouring rain. I wish I could think more but I am so exhausted today.