March 1st, 2014
I used to feel that by coming to Peru, my friends would
change and we would forget the things that we had done together, forget that
sentiment of togetherness that bonded us so tightly. Now, an older and more mature reality seeps
in and I realize that those moments are moments and not much more. I can’t recreate them so I should enjoy
them. The girls I used to hang out with
have somewhat disbanded– we will never share the same bond we had before. My friends from high school sort of did
that thing at the end of the Sandlot movie
– some have disappeared but I still recount those stories with them with
a smile on my face, and I’ve gained new friends that I hold onto tighter. My penchant for not wanting to let go of
memories leads to a kind of depression, until I’m three or four months into
some new thing and I realize it’s pretty neat.
Sometimes I think it takes longer, sometimes I get so caught up in the
memories I already have that I forget that in that moment, I am making new
memories.
Today, I killed Yalo (my lamb).
Well, not really me, my host mom hired a hit woman. It was oddly not shocking, and right now I
have recipes for mint sauces up on my screen.
The woman performed the deed very beautifully, showering the ground with
blood and sacrificing a few drops to the Apus, or mountain gods. I held him during his last breaths and last
kick, remembering fondly the memories we had together laying in my bed, napping
together, feeding him grass, swimming in the Inca pool, going shopping together
on the way to work. That was so long
ago, and because I have those memories of him doesn’t negate the fact that he
is now what he was then – an animal meant for eating. I don’t feel sad, in fact I didn’t feel much
beyond pure fascination at what happened today.
We kept everything. A piece of
his hair fell off to the side and I had to grab it at the insistence of my host
mom and make sure that we burn it, not just leave it there. We kept the blood, to boil and make a dish
with potatoes. We kept his intestines
and cleaned them out – what is left over from that will be taken to my host
mom’s farm to make fertilizer. We gave
the hired killer his stomach and intestines to do with what she pleased. I’m keeping his leather and fur for a seat
cover, and we’re making a stew out of his head and feet. He will feed my host family and their family
for a few days. My host mom asked, as we
were charring his head by an outdoor fire to take the hair off, if it gave me
pain to watch him die like that. I said
not really, just sadness over the memories lost (which they already were when
he grew up and became a head-butting maniac).
She said it hurt her a bit, as he was her “companero de la chakra”
(farm-companion). Juanita, the other
lamb, paced back and forth in her cage, making sad noises and watching as we
cut the hair off her ex-lover’s feet.
I’ve seen people and animals come and go, and realized the
importance of holding onto the relationships that last – and the importance of
holding on to me throughout those times when I am being left or leaving, when I
am going or returning – of holding on to the memories while not forgetting the
inevitable excitement at what is to come.
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