Panajachel, Solola — December 30, 2024

I walked into Panajachel on the second-to-last day of the year. The brick street near the entrance was strung with red ornaments swinging between the poles, and a turquoise kiosk caught the gray morning light. A man in a white tank top stood holding a camera, and further down the block a small cart had drawn a loose cluster of people. I drifted with them, past stalls set up along the tiled road, until the lane began to slope toward the water. The path down to the dock passed a thatched roof and a row of pink bougainvillea, and the two volcanoes across the lake rose into a sky that could not decide on weather. The promenade ran along a low stone wall planted with pink and yellow blooms. People walked unhurriedly. I leaned on a blue and red railing and watched the boats. Later I took one of them out. From the water, Panajachel pulled back into a thin strip of low buildings under cloud-shrouded mountains, and the lake went a darker blue than it had looked from shore. I remember thinking the year felt like that — already receding, already quieter.