Samsara

   My first childhood memory is sunset. I lie on a succulent grass with my eyes closed and arms crossed on the back of my head. The sweet aroma of hibiscuses mixed with the sweltering summer air is overflowing my lungs, and the silence is loud. I can feel my burning skin cool down as the sun sets down, and I finally open my eyes to see the sky drenched in vibrant colors. My mother is lying next to me. She smiles at me as we hold hands stretched on the green grass on the hill right outside of Ensenada. Coming here was like a ritual to my mother ever since I can remember. In the beginning, it was just me and her, then she started bringing my little brother and sister along, but we would go there every single day. At first it bored me; then it slightly annoyed me that I had to waste two hours of my precious time to watch the sunset; and lastly, it became a torment. I couldn't stand coming there anymore, but I was scared to ask and hurt my mother's feelings.

   To me, the sunsets lost their bygone appeal once I turned sixteen, but not to my mother, so I never really questioned its significance or expressed my evident reluctance. However, I started bringing books to read in the shadow while my mother and siblings lay quietly staring at the kaleidoscopic sky. Throughout my adolescence, I was particularly interested in Indian language and culture, so I would bring Hindu myths to the hill as part of my own small ritual. Don't get me wrong, I was a baptized Catholic, but there was something about Hinduism that fascinated me. As I read more and more, I started noticing patterns. When I'd see a ladybug or a kingbird, I'd speculate about the life it had before reincarnation: was it a human or an animal, was it a male or a female, did it have children, etc. I entertained myself by re-creating the former life of every creature on the hill, but never mine.

   Time went by. Instead of a teenage fuzz on my cheeks, I grew solid beard and mustache, which I thought distinguished me as a grown-up man. I gained weight and from a skeletal and scrawny boy, I reincarnated into a stout and well-built man. However, time wasn't kind to my mother. Her eyelids hang heavily over the eyes, and it seemed like they were always half-closed. Instead of her slight blush on the cheeks, deep wrinkles now cleaved her skin. Instead of her once beautiful dark-brown hair, grey locks were flowing down her shoulders. It seemed like over the years my mother has been streaming all of her beauty and strength towards me. One day I asked her: "Remember when we used to go see sunsets every day together? I always wanted to know why." She glanced at me and I caught a glimpse of mocking affection: "I don't really know why. It's just that my mother used to bring me there too." Then it all made sense.

   It was a summer evening, I and my little son were climbing the hill right outside of Ensenada. The sun was burning our skin and it was hard to breathe. Beads of sweat glimmered on our olive-colored skin. When we reached the top, we dropped on our knees in the face of a setting sun. My son wrapped his arms around me and we laughed about something neither of us could really explain. I loved him, and I realized that while I'm watching the sunset, he might be seeing the sunrise.