They swore I had traveled to the seven corners
of a global world,
gorged myself on mountaintop views,
kissed the fine wines
and watery teas
of aristocrats and
beggars I have seen.

I have tasted samples:
a cloud near the top of the world,
the stinging salt along
the light blue-to-maroon ocean,
an overcrowded beach,
the unpleasant stink of garbage
and fecal matter moving in waves
over an urban sheet of concrete.

I have dipped long fingers into
duck ponds green with use;
intrigued by tall trees leaning
over with thirst, I imagine
their shy whisper or two, or maybe just three,
and perhaps a small white flower's giggle.

I have kneeled in noisy markets
plump with the comings and goings of local men,
ignorant to the persistent hawkers
or rainbows of fruits on display.
And I found it humble:
dangling off tiny balconies,
old women's laundry
and a mastiff's solemn face.

I fitted together directions of broken English
until they guided me to beautiful places
bowed under towering buildings:
state-of-the-art skyscrapers
and monuments of kings and queens
adorned in pigeon droppings.

I have strolled on the manicured lawns
of large antique mansions ripe with history,
and gaped at the favela slums of Rio,
gripping onto what little rock remains.
From mosques to gothic Catholic churches
and everywhere in between.

I brushed hands with millionaires
and children who go to sleep
with nothing to eat.
And while I pondered what this meant to me,
I ducked in torrential rain
and sun that even in the shade burnt
great red patches onto delicate skin.

I have sliced my finger climbing
glaciers and medieval castles,
up crumbling temples and
down ruined streets of great civilizations.
Gracing blows from massive ice chunks
off steep roofs in old Jewish quarters
and slipping on pavement still wet,
I glimpse one more time
the places I've passed
on the journey that is my life.

I cannot remember the words
of my story already – only “euphoria.”
They are somewhere buried deep down
in my old woman's body,
hidden because of great age.
I ask for them again and again.
And wearily, they do as I say.

I forget my own life's story every time it's told.
My only hope now rests in the belief
that someone will remember,
because I won't.