We were Romeo and Juliet with ambition, not just emotion. Tiptoed our hardwood floors at dusk to trek those hillsides in the evening as one. Then the night we gave up tiptoeing for trekking altogether. And no one knew. And we didn't care.
We danced in the air's spry particles, arms thrusting upwards and legs flying off the ground, heads turned towards the cloud cover. Crushed our heels into the ground for the feeling of earth between our toes, swiveling our hips and rounding our shoulders, bending our necks, holding our grinning faces downward to enjoy the sights. We fell into each other's arms, laughing to the cliffs that rang out our song of praise to the earth. To freedom. And to us as we were.
I brought water; you stewed rabbit. We lived without and yet we had everything. Laughed at those presuming to know right from wrong; hiked and hiked and planted a flag on a cliff and named our river ”Run.” Because that's what it did, and that's what we were doing, and it was natural. I smiled at you; envisioned the day when we would name a plot ”Stay.”
And then the night came when you cut open the mother rabbit. You didn't know. I didn't know. And not just about her, but about me as well. But I knew then, at that moment, as I stared down at the wet, dying babies in her gaping belly.
Suddenly the distant feeling of hardwood grounded my soles, and all I could do was cry.
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