Dust

     Dust came into the car through the open windows, covering our bags, our clothes, our hair.  Even with the air conditioning, the mountain breeze was needed, so we kept the windows down.  We wound in and around these villages on unpaved roads around hairpin curves and through narrow alleyways to this remote guest house in Tighza.  My turret room is on the top floor through the terrace of this riad.  I stand at the open window, the breeze lightly blowing the lilac curtains as the flies buzz in and out.  The men are all in the cafe down the hill watching the World Cup match between Spain and Russia.  I took my afternoon mint tea there, but feeling strangely in the way and invisible at the same time decided to retreat.  Now, in my room, the doors and windows open against the stifling heat, playing children's voices rise from afar, and I feel the dust still on my skin.  I don't want to wash it off.  I want to absorb it, have this land become part of my cells, me become part of this land.  I could stand on this mountain, turn to dust, and blow away and not feel that my time had been wasted.