Faster. My breath feels like smoke on my cheeks. Faster. I hear the sharp

sound of twigs snapping underfoot, birds chipping out staccato melodies. I’m

surrounded by one-hundred shades of green, trees like massive wooden

beams swathed in verdant robes of silky leaves. Faster. Bright wildflowers

glisten in the late-morning dew. I hear the gurgle of the stream long before I

see it. Deep blue rolling into white coils, cool water splashes on my feet. Minty

fresh air fills my lungs. Lush grass brushes my ankles. The meadow is

approaching. Violet thistle sprouts around white Aspen trunks. A warm

breeze tickles at the back of my neck and a wave of fragrance from the

berries and honeysuckle washes over me. The late-spring berries are

bitter-sweet and the wind whispers songs of serenity through the trees.

The meadow is green and vermillion, all of the wildflowers grow here.

My fingers trace the thick woven pattern of my bag down to the button. I pull

out the blanket and lay it down in the middle of the meadow, the flattest

part. The golden-red sun shines through the trees. This is the perfect place,

our place. She isn’t here yet. I wait, listening to the birds sing and the water

rumble. I pick an armload of berries and another of honeysuckle and other

fragrant flowers, laying them down next to the blanket. I sit down, staring up at the pink-blue of the sky, laced with fluffy white clouds that look like fish

swimming in a pond. I wake up to her whispering my name. I open my eyes,

The sun has long since gone down and the stars are out. She’s already set up the telescope which she’s taken from behind the couch-- the one we aren’t meant to touch..

I realize that I’m hungry. I scoop up a handful of berries, pop them in my

Mouth, and shiver. Tart and chilled. She brings Kool-aid and quesadillas wrapped in tin foil. The stars shimmer in the sky like crystals pinned to a jet-black

wall. I can see entire galaxies in a grain of sand. In this moment I wonder if

the universe will ever acknowledged us. After a while,

we pack up and make our way back through the forest toward the single-wide trailer we call home. Owls perch in low branches, cooing on occasion. The spring is quiet now, like the drop of a faucet going unnoticed in the night. Everything looks so different, like a beautiful painting draped in a black cloth, not covering it’s beauty entirely, but creating a new kind of beauty from within.