In 1963

they board a bus bound for the north. They have only 
suitcases stuffed with their clothes, having left a lousy rental 
apartment in the too busy, too crowded capital where too many 
mistake the shape of the future for shiny billboards next to a bridge.  
The road is a constant coiling. The child on her lap sleeps most 
of the way, whereas she is trying to fight the motion sickness, 
not wanting to throw up in the middle of this crush of strangers. 
He rolls up his sleeves and takes out a handkerchief, pats 
his temples where the hair is starting to grey. He folds his 
newspaper in half, looks at her with not a little amazement, still. 
The marvel of her cheekbones, the smart collar of the dress 
she sewed herself, showing off her young and graceful neck. 
They will try their luck where the scent of pine is invigorating 
and the heat never oppressive. His cousin has promised a job 
at the City Hall, and some of his friends and townmates are 
already there. At this point in time, both of them are willing 
to give it a year or two, if only to start over in a place where 
no one knows (yet)  the story of the child they will raise 
as their own. They don't know the names of birds there, 
nor the language of the natives. But how could it not be 
felicitous, how could it not be lucky, that they've passed 
a waterfall gushing over rock in the shape of a wedding veil?  

The mountains, where they will spend all their lives, 
are such an otherworldly green.