It was your favourite time of day when I missed you most, just before the sunset, when everything is golden. It really is so beautiful, so alive with light and colour. So alive it hurts to look at.
It had been one of those days that lazily pass you by, wafting along on the breeze, hazy, unclear. We were camping out by the river in a clearing sheltered by mighty pine trees that smelt like earth and melted the sun so it could drip through the leaves like warm, honey coloured rain. Through years of wear the grass had died leaving only dirt and pine, so we turned to mud when our feet were wet. It was so quiet, empty for miles, just us and the river, cold as ever. It was Sunday morning in the lounge room, with the TV on and the curtains closed. It was home and we'd never left. Our stomachs panged and we stumbled up the banks of the river, swam lazily and rested in the sun. We watched elephants turn in to houses and disappear in to thin white lines that float away.
As always, night came too quickly. We built a fire and watched the trees dance as our toes caught on fire and the fire spread, spread to our hands and our faces until we were burning beacons in darkness. It was one of those moments. I heard you there, off in the distance. But you were so far away, the furthest you’ve ever been. We woke inside sunburnt, itching red bodies. Bodies caked with dirt, and pine nettle. Free bodies.
Every year we packed up and we left, but we never left you behind.
Gender:
Points: 816
Reviews: 65