I crossed over last night. To where I do not know. But I do know I belonged, and I wasn’t scared.
WE were somewhere celebrating my parents’ 50th Anniversary, somewhere near an ocean with sand and beaches. The sand was covered by wooden boardwalks connecting a series of elegant shops.
Although my first reaction was that this was the Caribbean or some such place, I later realized no! There were no Blacks within sight, only Europeans...possibly Spanish by their eyes and coloring.
My parents were back at the hotel resting. I don’t know where my own or siblings’ spouses were, only that my siblings were off shopping in groups of twos or threes, while I explored the place alone.
At some point, I was standing before an outdoor display of scarves. They were elegant and silky, lovely in their own way, yet not my type to buy. Nevertheless, I was fascinated by the way they were arranged on a circular straw tray.
Suddenly, a gust of wind toppled them. As I bent to retrieve the scattered items, an elegantly dressed woman rushed up and demanded to know why I had dropped them.
"Are you going to buy?" she said. "They are NOT to be played with!"
Although she appeared imperial, once she looked into my eyes and saw they spoke from the soul, her rigidness melted.
I explained I hadn't toppled the scarves; the wind did that. But I did admire them...not for their subdued colors or the elaborate designs woven into each cloth, but for the way SHE had displayed them. I was fascinated by the manner in which she had folded them; much like the way napkins are placed in elegant Swiss restaurants with the unique signature-like fold of the person arranging them.
As the saleswoman listened to my words, her hands flashed with lightning speed; rearranging the scarves into a new array of colors and pattern. She smiled, pleased that someone had acknowledged her artistry. I then walked on.
Within moments, two of my sisters came rushing up with shopping bags loaded and proud pronouncements that they had come across the greatest buys. They openned the bags and showed me lovely sweaters that were exquisite in design and great prices to boot. They had spent their money and now were headed back to the hotel to show off their finds. Each insisted that I head for the sweater shop. They told me just where to go.
Along the way, a half-moon door beckoned. Its entry-way differed from the other shops; nothing for elegant tourists here. Instead it was a junk shop of sorts, composed of two candle-lit rooms piled with knick-knacks, broken pieces of this or that, miniatures of peoples’ lives.
An old woman in dark rumpled clothes smiled at me, yet never stood up. Instead, she handed me a burlap bag, and pointed toward a hand-made sign. It said “Closed Often, Open Sometimes, Xplore at Your Own Risk”.
Though the place wasn’t dusty, most items looked as if they hadn’t been touched since the day they were placed on a shelf.
Excited to break their solitude, I loaded the bag with the results of my foray. Items like a magnetic compass, a clay pipe, a brass-edged folding ruler and a pair of silver metal granny glasses were perfect to recombine with constructions in my head. Only something else appeared to be missing. I returned to the woman to ask why.
“Everything’s lovely, yet nothing’s mechanical. Any chance there is something like that tucked away?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Out back there’s a shed where my husband keeps that kind of stuff. Go ahead, it’s easy enough to find.”
I headed out the back way. This place was the other side. It in no way resembled the wooden boardwalks quilted with elegant shops. It was a shantytown with dirt alleyways and dilapidated buildings. I followed what I assumed was a path toward the shed.
At one point, I looked over and saw a man's face and upper torso. He silently kept vigil my way. Standing behind a barrier, he was both young and dripping in sweat...a laborer, possibly a blacksmith. Neither of us said a word, yet I wasn't afraid. I knew that I belonged and walked with assurance.
No one bothered me as I headed into the old woman's shed. Once inside, I saw all types of boxes and bits of machinery, plus a world globe perched on a pedestal.
That’s when someone approached me from behind, and said in a low calm voice, “See anything of interest?”
Unless the old woman was married to a younger man, this tall skinny fellow wasn't her husband. Yet he didn't appear menacing either.
"I'm just a fellow traveler", he said, as he pointed toward a nearby box. “Curious to look inside?”
My hand reached in and pulled out a car or something like it that was full of color. Yet it was strange. For one, there was a V-like handle attached to its base. Vehicle, I say, because it wasn’t a car. It was colorful and full of chrome; its front grill and bumper weirdly grinning like braces on an adolescent’s teeth.
The nameplate across the hood said “Mainliner” and the vehicle’s shape somehow appeared better suited to a bus than a car. Yet it intrigued me none the less, especially its handle.
I’d grip this metal v-shaped form and rhythmically squeeze it….in and out. Again and again, the “Mainliner” lit up with sparks and made roaring sounds. It was similar to a toy one would pump on the 4th of July, a circular spinner which glowed each time the revolving clicker returned to a certain position.
Suddenly, I realized that as bright as lights and sounds emerged from the Mainliner, it was otherwise dark around me
I don’t remember where or how I returned to my family; nor if I ever purchased the “Mainliner”. It didn’t seem to matter. None of them would have understood its intrinsic value or why it had so captured my curiosity. Yet I understood, and was pleased just for experiencing the moment.
I crossed over to the other side and belonged. No one else needed to understand how or why, only me. And I was pleased that I could come and go at my own calling.
I knew that I would someday return to this place. Nor did I worry that I wouldn’t be able to find my way.
It didn’t matter that we were supposedly just visiting this spot whilst celebrating my parents’ 50th Anniversary. I knew I could reach it just by Crossing Over; no other form of transport was necessary and I was pleased.’
