Deer Creek Resevoir, Provo Canyon, Utah. April 2012
© e.gosney 2014
At home I arrive, crossing the threshold from the chaos of foreign affairs to the refuge of arm chairs and sweatshirts. I peel off layers of sticky clothing that cling to my flushed skin. Away with the shoes, the socks. Away with the painted face and bobby-pinned hair. Yanking on a corded anchor, I raise the blinds and sneak a glance at the outer world. Forcing the aluminum window upward, a breeze sweeps through the dimly-lit apartment, dancing off books and somersaulting over the coffee table, landing amongst the couch cushions and sighing out a hello.
It is night, the time of creation. Eyelids sag in pitiful exhaustion, little men tugging on sleepy strings to bring the lids to a close. Unable to move toward one decision or another, I stand as a statue in a forgotten garden. The moss crawls and creeps, latching onto my toes and ankle bones. It is so simple, to fall. But I cannot decide, for there is so much yet to be done.
Another push of wind catches my tangled hair, with moonbeams and fairy wings coming to join the fun. I exist here. There is not this way or that way, it is only present. There is no mistake, no progression. There is only a moment suspended in my stout figure, in my fogged-over and whip-lashed mind. "Give me this moment," I plead to the moon. But words have made all things flee.
I dare myself to move. Breaking the growth that has accumulated around my grounded feet, I stomp one step to my left. The shell cracks and crumbles, exposing me once more to the timeline I want so much to hinder. I step lightly twice more, snatching hanging clothes between tender-skinned fingers. I touch the wall, feeling its pulse connect with mine. It isn't the structure that is mine, but the idea. The freedom. The life I know and the life I have, ever so slowly, begun to adore. My palm presses against the white-washed wall and I lean in for goodnight kiss. I stop short, realizing the spell has brought me too far into the absurd. I pull away and shatter back through to reality.
Still, I can't help but whisper into the paint. "You are mine. I am yours, life. If only for a little while longer."
Safe from the unknown. Making love to an idea. Such is my life at six and 20.