Marcos Chin

I was just looking at some photos of Cadaques, Spain and it seems so distant. I remember that it was hot, and the sand was rocky. The city from across the bay was white even at night, and I remember swimming and looking into the blackness in front, below, and above me and not seeing any stars, but only a yellow circle that rested within this blackness like the core of some fairytale egg. I just did a quick search of Cadaques online, and the photos that came up didn't align with the memories that I have of that place.
But then I think of the dinner that I had the night before I left, with Ana and Gonzalo, their son, and his friend, at a table underneath the tree that sat in the front yard of their house. On a branch hung a lamp that along with the moon became the only light at dinner. And I don't recall the dinner itself, not the food, the taste, nor the drinks, but rather it was the moments afterward that have burned into my blood, becoming memories that I oftentimes go to when I yearn for some distance in this life. I remember the darkness, the smiles and the singing. I remember Ana's guitar, the flourishes of her Spanish finger picking against the strings, and her voice floating above and beneath the nighttime air. I remember Gonzalo staring at her, his face softened by the moon and her song. He fell in love with her a thousand times over that night.