Space
Space stands sharper in memory.
Sometimes I feel like I've lived here my entire life, and always will live here. Like my entire life fits neatly in these three months as hopes, dreams, and memories.
There are things about this place that I won't miss, and others I never wanted, but it's mostly made of pleasant moments, like every space. The night sky is beautiful. The land around here is flat and clear, and the lights from the surrounding suburbs is much less than overwhelming. Still, I can't help but think of the best sky I've ever seen.
I spent a night in rural, unoccupied southern Utah with my mother, my sister, and her boyfriend, at a small house owned by his grandparents. They were Mormons, so the house was filled with children's books about Joseph Smith and paintings of Jesus that made it difficult for my mother to sleep. We went outside to see the sky. It was perfectly clear; unobstructed by clouds, trees, buildings, or light. There were so many starts that I realized I had never really seen anything before in my entire life.
We were startled by the sounds of a large animal nearby, and realized that we were sharing our space with a domesticated horse. Eventually the bugs and the heat got the best of us and we went inside to sleep. For some reason, as I lay on my blue air mattress, staring at the ceiling, I began to think of my father and his inevitable death, and cried myself to sleep. It's still one of the only thoughts that makes me cry. We all slept through the night, unhindered by grief or Jesus or Joseph Smith, and the next morning the horse escaped.
Space stands sharper in memory. I wonder if I knew then, as I know now, that I'll always remember the time that passed in that small house. I wonder how my life since then frames the emotions and the sensations of that night, and how my life from here on will frame each moment in memory.
Sometimes I feel like I've lived here my entire life, and always will live here. Like my entire life fits neatly in these three months as hopes, dreams, and memories.
There are things about this place that I won't miss, and others I never wanted, but it's mostly made of pleasant moments, like every space. The night sky is beautiful. The land around here is flat and clear, and the lights from the surrounding suburbs is much less than overwhelming. Still, I can't help but think of the best sky I've ever seen.
I spent a night in rural, unoccupied southern Utah with my mother, my sister, and her boyfriend, at a small house owned by his grandparents. They were Mormons, so the house was filled with children's books about Joseph Smith and paintings of Jesus that made it difficult for my mother to sleep. We went outside to see the sky. It was perfectly clear; unobstructed by clouds, trees, buildings, or light. There were so many starts that I realized I had never really seen anything before in my entire life.
We were startled by the sounds of a large animal nearby, and realized that we were sharing our space with a domesticated horse. Eventually the bugs and the heat got the best of us and we went inside to sleep. For some reason, as I lay on my blue air mattress, staring at the ceiling, I began to think of my father and his inevitable death, and cried myself to sleep. It's still one of the only thoughts that makes me cry. We all slept through the night, unhindered by grief or Jesus or Joseph Smith, and the next morning the horse escaped.
Space stands sharper in memory. I wonder if I knew then, as I know now, that I'll always remember the time that passed in that small house. I wonder how my life since then frames the emotions and the sensations of that night, and how my life from here on will frame each moment in memory.