Charred.

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.

Bonded

I look back at the pictures and at first I see so much joy, longing piecing into each other… then just below that, waves and knots of pain, unraveling down deep into Marianas Trench… and somehow we found a point of connection down there too. Hearing each other’s echos… maybe that’s where we comforted each other most. Both hoping that we descended further to the core of the earth where maybe true, unconditional love was as pure as heat is organic there… Maybe that’s where we thought we’d meet. If we could just swim through the darkness more. But when I heard and you heard me were always at different levels. Ships passing in the night down there. I guess how could we have met we were broken differently, healing different wounds, swimming in different patterns with not enough tools to bring us to a point of common ground, empathy.

Something I know for sure though is that if we didn’t find the healthiest of love, there was love there. Twisted and gnarled and sad but it was. And that connection will never be forgotten. It lives.

A turn in the road // On the other side of time

As the fog dissipated, the stone became clear and in writing it affirmed. Neither one wrong, one wanted solitude a little longer. It wasn’t for specific views, known feelings, or a different medium under their foot. It was the art of isolation they longed for, though there weren’t words for it, because it wasn’t a conscious thought then… it was the art of isolation and what it could unfold into if given the time.

The stone sits, the paths unwind into the wood… and maybe they go further still.