Time is going a thousand miles an hour, anymore.
Rain falls and puddles dry leaving little to no trace that they were ever there.
Trees fall, and water erodes everything to create the world anew.
Longing for new grounds in this vast and changing landscape, I still find myself longing for home.
And traces remain, to the joy of my heart.
I look to the mountaintops and see these things that I still hold so dear, standing unblemished despite the land's ravage.
Today I took a trip to one of these monuments and reveled in the unbridled joy of having once called this my home, my place in the world that I had only for some mysterious preordination been fortunate to have resided.
I moved my hands across the smooth stone surfaces and read the words that had been etched there, recalling familiar phrases such as "no one else understands like that," "there's a reason," and "I still do," or even "When we're thirty- five."
My hand stopped as I retraced with my finger along the words: "I love you."
I walked down the path back once again to the land below to continue to explore, till, and build upon it, with this heat and the cool shade of the peaks above.
The world changes and I am not naive-- there is still many a thing to do and we have many paths to take. It is possible, though our paths have come so close more than once in these last three years, that they may never converge again save for today. But on the days when the sun beats down or whenever you reminisce, look just over the treeline to that mountain where the shade is and the words are etched. I still do.