lánytestvér

so i've been house-ridden the past few days, spending a LOT of time on the couch, munching and watching I Love Lucy and Say Yes to the Dress re-runs. If i'm not on the couch, then im in my bed reading Freakonomics or reflecting. yea, thats right, reflecting. at the risk of sounding like a starry-eyed lofty cliche, having this much down time (unemployed, remember?) and being in poor health makes reflection a pretty productive use of my time. sometimes i catch myself thinking of Hungary-- memories of waking up at dawn to the incessant cockadoodle of the rooster in the backyard; sitting on the deck outside of my room and reading under the pear tree. today, a memory in the corner of my mind worked its way to the front...

we sat in the car in silence, our faces lit only by the residue of headlights. (no streetlamps on these village roads.) on this last night in the village, there were no words. but three weeks of speaking through smiles and signals had taught me that anita and i didn't need words. i felt my eyes swelling as i tried to blink away tears. after climbing mountains, picking grapes, translating songs, drinking and eating and laughing together-- without ever speaking english-- anita had become a part of my heart. and now, we had to say goodbye. sitting in that quiet car in the middle of the village street, we became aware of the very real possibility that we might never see each other, never be next to each other, never breathe the same air, ever again. she looked at me, said my name, and put her hand to her heart. i did the same. i dont think knowing english or hungarian would have done us any good-- there were no words that could fill a room the way that gesture did. it was then that i realized the providence that had brought us there, together in a parked car on a dimly lit dirt road in the middle of rural Hungary. it was the first time i felt a quiet love in the most meaningful way. we had the kind of bond that most people are only born into-- i'd found a sister on the other side of the ocean.