Long ago, I met a traveler. I first saw him in his garden, kneeling over an exotic-looking flower, its blossom the color of lemon, like a babe wrapped in a blanket, sleeping peacefully. I’d seen him leaning over that flower, as he picked the weeds that grew around it, pinching them between his thumb and forefinger and pulling them off, his lips moving all the while.
Intrigued, I walked close to his fence and pretended I was trying to peek around the curb, as if I was waiting for the bus. I heard the old man say:
“…swam in the oceans of Ganymede and spoke to its people, who think of the outside world as an impossibility.”
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