Sitting on this dock...how many more days until “sitting on this dock” becomes not a daily occurrence, but a holiday, an afterthought.
I have yet to etch my name in that withered wood, scarred by past sitters and lovers and swimmers and crazed mid-winter dock jumpers. And the temptation is there, for sure, to make permanent my presence and join the ranks. But sliding into the back of my mind is that very reality. Do I want to join the ranks? Are their names there as a defiant act of tyranny; a pride-filled stand of arrogance? That’s not for me. Because this place on this wood with these legs dangling over the edge is no resting place for the prideful. It is humility and pain and togetherness and connection swallowed in evergreen dotted mountains stitched to an endless azure sky. This is awe and fear dominated by immense granite monoliths and eased into safety by a softening pink backdrop.
This is it. This is everything.
Where I never wanted to come and never want to leave.
This is heartache and blessing and tears added to the lulling motion beneath me. This is hello again, beautiful, and goodbye and every word muttered, uttered, laughed and screamed in between. The end and the beginning colliding all at once and so unbearable are both that words fall short and attempt to choke out between stuttered breaths and pursed lips.
And the sky continues to look down on me as it kisses the clouds goodnight and slides them into the nook of the mountains and welcomes the every brightening moon with a stroke of darkness to make her feel comfortable.
And her silence.
And her silence is deafening, whispering, “Don’t fear. I’ve been there. I’ve been here.”
And loneliness slips through the slats of warped wood; a heartbeat relaxes; the very corner of a mouth tips upward in a grateful nod and she lays down gracefully into the arms of night.