I-25

          Each spring day that the sun shines its light on the crass winter branches transforming the gray into magnificent shades of green, pink, and white, as it always has without fail, I feel my seat vibrate on the I-25. I close my eyes and let the warmth from my window remind me of the open land. Where flat, dusty fields turn into full booming landscapes, and the whole way there, my friend hums along to a silent radio, taking in subtle beauty, inching to greatness. 

          The I-25 changed nothing; it only made me more secure. Secure in the belief that my belonging is with the waters and rocks and positive that they would never see the end of me and I of them. The highlands mask a depression that is only present when I am not alongside their peaks. They are everpresent under the same sky and within my mind. The seasons change and I wait to return North or West where the sun beats down a bit harder and the clouds reach down to shake my hand, welcoming my arrival. I go through the motions, waiting to return.

          During this time apart, I hide my rejection of the current reality. I’m haunted by people who are still alive, and I’m haunted by ones who are not. Feelings come and go, and I change. I fall apart, I stand up, I move graciously through bushes of thorns that are tearing my clothes apart, yet the valley looks just the same. The mountains pile with snow, and they melt and bloom, and they do it over and over and over. The river flows regardless of those who shame it. 

          I’m five years old, and my dress gets wet. I’m watching my brother cast again and again until he yelps with joy, an American yellow perch held just below his chin. I never did mind getting my dress wet; I just wanted to feel a part of it all. I wanted to kiss the fish and say goodbye. I wanted to sit on the rocks and watch their lines whip through the air like a lasso. I wanted those rocks to cut my feet and for the river to sting the wound. I wouldn’t mind getting bit by a horsefly but would pick each one off my dog so as not to disturb his peace. I still want the sky to be cornflower blue, and I want it to keep its promise that it will wait.  

        Although it takes a while for it to come, and my patience grows thin, it never fails to surprise me again. When the water gets its first glimmers of the spring sun, I close my eyes all over again and eagerly wait for the season to begin. For in its absence, if I did not feel this great pain, I may never have felt such immense joy.
The yellow glow devouring the space makes the hardwood less shocking on my feet in the mornings. It makes all the difference in feeling alive; even away from the I-25, I know there’s a river nearby.