About once a year now I find myself there. It takes me a while to recognize it because I’ve tried to intentionally and unintentionally not remember the path here. To allow mother nature to take over and hide the way because I refuse to use it…. But for the far and few times I make it here now, I find myself skimming the edges of the charred forest where we once tried to grow things. It’s still black, never grew back. Scarred. When I walk the edge of this land, I can’t tell if I’m revisiting it to try and remember the touch of my hand holding your face or your smile that shot a thousand stars into my night sky, or if I’m coming there to remind myself that I never want to feel that way again. So much good on the surface so much pain on the other side. When I trace this line of land with my bare feet and navigate this flood of emotions and skewed memories, many I think I’ve forgotten, or hoped to, I swear I feel the heat under the ground. Little embers waiting to turn ablaze and burn again. But I like greenery, and I want to protect that that which remains here. So, I try to not acknowledge their existence too much as I pebble along waiting to be drawn away from this dark place again. Eventually, I seem to always choose that.