Making the Trip
Stewart Joyce

And if I go there, will you promise to meet me? I can make the trip alone, but not without knowing youíll meet me there. We can walk, maybe, as I hear itís nice there. The sun will feel warm, and I can already smell the tall grass in the late afternoon.

Someone told me thereís a stream that runs through, hidden and still clear-blue. We can find it, maybe. Leave our shoes on the bank and step in barefoot. Itíll feel cool, and the cool around our feet will only make everything else feel that much warmer. Youíll see a smoothed, flat rock on the bottom, and reach in to pick it up. The water will feel cold, sending a chill up your arm. When you pull it out the slight breeze will hit the water left on your arm, and it will feel new. Iíll pull back and send the rock skipping along the top of the water, against the weak current, and back to a watery bed.

Weíll find a tree with shade enough for both of us, not far from the water, and weíll lie down in the summer grass, greener than a painting. The air will feel so fine as you rest your head on my chest. The crickets will be our radio, and time will drift until night. The stars will serve as lights for lives that could have been, and could still be. The moon will hang full over all, a reminder of what is.

Will I see you there, if I go? Itís not hard to get there, but I donít think I could ever come back.

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