We almost died getting to Lost Creek Campground. Died a thousand times in our imaginations: toppled off cliffs, slipped spiraling down corkscrew turns, lost and found and lost again in the midsummer dark. When we got there, the camp was closed, but the angels were having a party. They said, “sure,” we could stay the night. So we trespassed under the pines. The colors ate up the sky, thick and alive. We could feel them in our bodies, through the pressing clouds – purple, orange, magenta, gold.
My last thought before sleep was of the world – a watery memory of itself – suspended in a single tear.
Words and photo © Jaime Greenberg, 2018
