Greg, Thatcher and Mr. Colombian

I couldn't remember the day I sang any U2 songs, or on what month the day I hitched a caravan and rode all the way to Georgia. Or that handsome chef at the little eatery at New Mexico who cooked my ever so tasty calorific chicken burger on a huge plate with fries and thick lump of mustard.

These minor details are haunting me. The details I tried to remember but hardly visible in my box of memory. I closed my eyes and started imagining. Drawing back the timeline that might be or might be not existed. Like that details of hitch hiking a caravan to Georgia, it might be not Georgia at all. It might be in Jefferson in Missouri. Or in Thailand.

There's a certainty in my voice when I projected this. The memories that people thought never existed. How could you forget a generous offering of a cold thick orange juice by a man who didn't even know you, what with in a street with a lot of other ever-so-gorgeous people in their fanciest dresses and heels?

These details might be not horrid at all, because now I remember that I went to Georgia with a couple of gays on their sea blue Mustang, not a caravan. And at the back seat, there was a huge metal box with thousands of Security Checked stickers from various airports in the world, and the color was so intriguing. You know the classy look of jetsetters with a hard shell luggage, and they were nice. And their names were Greg and Thatcher and they were on the road for more than a month when I met them and they talked about insects and flowers.

And that chef, his name was Salvador and he came from Colombia but he was in America for more than a decade and his stubble was great on his slim shaded cheek. He had faux hawk style made to his hair, and he called me Ms. Pumpkin and I never knew why.

Ahh these small memories that make me, me. And why should I trade these micro memories for bigger events that happen to my life? I cherish them lot, and I couldn't think any other day that this will be happening all over again.

Oh yes, I sang Beautiful Day in the Mustang. With Thatcher while Greg dead sleeping. Hmpphh


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