Looking at a wall calendar, it was September before I knew it. The picture is Zions National Park in Utah, a place I have set foot.
I know the texture of the scrub grass, the look, feel and warmth of sandstone and the terrain it creates. Dry places interspersed by cold stream or river. Changing treeline, now deciduous, then coniferous, I have touched those anonymous twisting trunks. Blue plateau in the distance. Shape, color and setting unique on the planet. Even the air, the whiff of sage in the breeze. Sparse. Big sky, I can breathe.
We visit places, but if touched deeply, do we ever leave? Transit through memory of image. Is it illusion that I sit in a chair, in my home office, washing machine gently chugging, crickets sounding through open windows? With age I understand no tickets are needed to ride.
I wish I were there. Maybe I am.
Shouldn't...but Do 