Recalling a July moment

[vaneramos]

Lake Fletcher, July 30


I awoke this morning with sun pawing gently behind the bedroom curtain, the eyelids of my island in the city.

Lake Fletcher. In a breath I am there, floating on my back in dark nectar. On a clear summer day the light tricks my veiled retinas into believing everything is golden glow. When I peel back the lids, it turns to sky and reflecting water. Sapphire bleeds into radiant forest. I just lie there—on my swaying raft or water noodles—shuttering back and forth between universes: orange and blue, orange and blue.

In that moment, embraced between amiable flood and soft firmament, I feel ultimate happiness. A mind could float for a lifetime in that vibrant water, inhaling clean air, soaking nourishment from the lake. My lungs could photosynthesize, and I would need nothing. I could live 100 years in isolation and grief, but that one bright hour would make it all worthwhile.

Then I am back again, sitting behind this morning window, the first October sunlight flooding my golden oak desk. I am pierced by the lake. Wellsprings burst deep inside me.

But it is here with me now. This is raw. This is real. This is enough.