edge of the continent

The interment took place at the end of the point, where clouds raced towards the desert and the air that filled my lungs was fresh with cut grass and salt spray. The priest stood facing the sun, and he squinted when he looked up from a bible worn softly to nap. I thought of all the burials he had presided over and wondered if each still had the power to deepen the creases around his eyes, or if, with time, he discovered a means of sheltering himself from the grief he was sent to ease. Beyond his shoulder, I saw rows of marble headstones that stretched on towards the sea.

The wind whipped at my clothing and the sun shone overhead. What an ideal day it was to be laid to rest: cool, brisk, and swept clean by the storms that had passed during the night.

I left town on a break for the first time in many months: completely last minute, had a mile-long list of things to do at home… packed a suitcase and left anyway. Although I only headed out to Las Vegas (admittedly, not my first choice for a weekend away) it felt good to suspend reality for a few days and exchange the phone, the work, and all that they represent for exploration, eating out, and losing fifty dollars to the gambling gods. I have missed everything that travelling entails: anticipating my departure, happily losing my bearings, knowing no soul but my own, and waking up each morning wondering of the interesting adventures the day will bring.

I have, admittedly, been hiding out a bit. A lot. More than I care to admit to. I’ve become a veritable hermit, truth be told. There has been pain that endures, numbs, and leaves my body shivering with a cold from within that no sun can touch. I’ve been keeping my head above water, but it’s not enough. I need to swim again.