Thunk. Like a strike of lightning the slam of the car door startles me back to reality.
“That was a pretty drive, huh?” Sage stands out over the reservoir in awe, their eyes reflecting the mirror of blue and pink hues in the water below. “I think we’re gonna catch a great sunset!”
Against the pain in my brow, I force my eyes to focus, cautiously taking in my surroundings. Sure enough, the horizon hints at marigold and peach, and the edges of the clouds are highlighted in gold and silver. Beneath this masterpiece another is displayed: exuberant trees and California chaparral coat the hills leading down to the reservoir. There are no buildings, no boats to interrupt the landscape — only the occasional unpaved service roads and power lines, their silhouettes creating crisp crosses across the sky where the cables overlap. The scenery will only get better as the sun continues its descent over the next hour or so.
For a second, I’m so astonished by the scene that I almost let myself fall into its enchantment. The desire tugs at my soul. But no. I cannot. Not with the dread of all my responsibilities. Not with all the should’s and have to’s and need to’s and must do’s. I’ve been fitted with a choker, and my to-do list is the leash. I clamp my eyelids together again, tighter.
“You okay?” Sage asks, voice full of concern. I nod, my eyes still closed. “Okay . . . why don’t we take the East Ridge Trail? We’ll get a great view from the summit.”
I force my feet to trudge alongside my friend’s. Sage doesn’t deserve the weight of my suffering.
Time and space pass me in a blur as we make our way up the ridge. At some point, my fingers twitch. My keys jingle in response and, before I know it, I’m twisting the key chain around my fingers, digging the jagged edges of the metal into my palm. My hands are hungry for the sensation. After all, the pain is little in comparison to the burning stitches that have appeared in my chest.
“Breathe.”
I realize I’m gasping for breath, and that Sage is gripping my shoulders with practiced hands. Breathe. For several minutes, I take heaving gulps of air before my breath slows. Eventually, I notice how the air has a layer of warmth and sharpness under its initial musk. We’ve stopped on a section of the trail under some bay trees, their limbs extended over us in protection. Looking up, I see the sky’s rosy blush has deepened between the leaves.
Sage looks somewhat reassured as my breath steadies, and nods towards the trail ahead. A break in the trees. A field of grass with hypnotic ripples from the wind strumming each blade like violin strings. As we continue our trek, Sage talks: updates about their younger sister adjusting to college, excitement over the new album of their favorite band, and heartfelt broadsides against the English language. I want to respond, make Sage know that I hear them — I normally do — but all I can offer is the occasional “yeah” or “huh” or “mhm.” Eventually, Sage falls quiet, drained of things to say, or maybe of the energy to carry on this despondent conversation.
For the next twenty minutes or so the only sound is the rhythmic crunching of grit and leaves under our boots. It’s comforting, in a way, but with each step I can’t help but notice the daunting distance between us and the parking lot. I can’t check my email right now, can’t work on chores, can’t even hide under the covers to play Wordle.
I’m trapped. The realization hits me hard in the gut, and I struggle to keep my standing. My chest tightens, my hand finding my keys like a dagger. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
A hand rubs my back as my stomach ties itself in agonizing knots.
“You don’t have to let it control you.”
I gag, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my heart. I’m shaking.
“The sun is setting. Watch it with me, please.”
I heave, my insides twisting against brambles.
“For both of us.”
I retch, ridding myself of the pain at last.
The creature from within me rests in a dainty coil inside the cup of my palms. I should be surprised to be holding a snake in my lap — especially one that emerged from my bowels — but all I feel is a true state of peace. She’s calm, too. Tired. If snakes could blink, her charcoal eyelids would be drooping to cover those emerald eyes. Oh, am I tired.
I raise my head to the sky, my vision finally clear. In the west, the setting sun creates a spectacular display of dappled clouds and swirls of daring fuchsia and bold carnelian. The hills cushion the sun’s descent, accepting it into an embrace. This kind of tiredness feels different, I realize. Not like the desperate exhaustion you feel sandwiched between hours of work you’ve done and hours of work left to do, but the kind of lazy tranquility of finally sinking into your mattress. Nothing more to do. Just be.
I pull Sage to my side, feeling their warmth. “Thank you,” I say. Thank you.
*****
Before we travel back through the dusk, I gently lay the black serpent on the earth. Without the slightest hint of urgency, she weaves herself through the tall grass and away into the night. Something tells me that she’ll be back; that I’ll writhe in pain again, wanting so very much to hate her. But I can’t. She’s a part of me, after all.
So for now, I let myself fall into that moment after I’ve let her go. Let myself lean into the solicitous embrace of the canyon oak. Let myself sink into each musical thump of our heavy boots. Let myself be here, perfectly far away from all of my worries.
“That was a pretty drive, huh?” Sage stands out over the reservoir in awe, their eyes reflecting the mirror of blue and pink hues in the water below. “I think we’re gonna catch a great sunset!”
Against the pain in my brow, I force my eyes to focus, cautiously taking in my surroundings. Sure enough, the horizon hints at marigold and peach, and the edges of the clouds are highlighted in gold and silver. Beneath this masterpiece another is displayed: exuberant trees and California chaparral coat the hills leading down to the reservoir. There are no buildings, no boats to interrupt the landscape — only the occasional unpaved service roads and power lines, their silhouettes creating crisp crosses across the sky where the cables overlap. The scenery will only get better as the sun continues its descent over the next hour or so.
For a second, I’m so astonished by the scene that I almost let myself fall into its enchantment. The desire tugs at my soul. But no. I cannot. Not with the dread of all my responsibilities. Not with all the should’s and have to’s and need to’s and must do’s. I’ve been fitted with a choker, and my to-do list is the leash. I clamp my eyelids together again, tighter.
“You okay?” Sage asks, voice full of concern. I nod, my eyes still closed. “Okay . . . why don’t we take the East Ridge Trail? We’ll get a great view from the summit.”
I force my feet to trudge alongside my friend’s. Sage doesn’t deserve the weight of my suffering.
Time and space pass me in a blur as we make our way up the ridge. At some point, my fingers twitch. My keys jingle in response and, before I know it, I’m twisting the key chain around my fingers, digging the jagged edges of the metal into my palm. My hands are hungry for the sensation. After all, the pain is little in comparison to the burning stitches that have appeared in my chest.
“Breathe.”
I realize I’m gasping for breath, and that Sage is gripping my shoulders with practiced hands. Breathe. For several minutes, I take heaving gulps of air before my breath slows. Eventually, I notice how the air has a layer of warmth and sharpness under its initial musk. We’ve stopped on a section of the trail under some bay trees, their limbs extended over us in protection. Looking up, I see the sky’s rosy blush has deepened between the leaves.
Sage looks somewhat reassured as my breath steadies, and nods towards the trail ahead. A break in the trees. A field of grass with hypnotic ripples from the wind strumming each blade like violin strings. As we continue our trek, Sage talks: updates about their younger sister adjusting to college, excitement over the new album of their favorite band, and heartfelt broadsides against the English language. I want to respond, make Sage know that I hear them — I normally do — but all I can offer is the occasional “yeah” or “huh” or “mhm.” Eventually, Sage falls quiet, drained of things to say, or maybe of the energy to carry on this despondent conversation.
For the next twenty minutes or so the only sound is the rhythmic crunching of grit and leaves under our boots. It’s comforting, in a way, but with each step I can’t help but notice the daunting distance between us and the parking lot. I can’t check my email right now, can’t work on chores, can’t even hide under the covers to play Wordle.
I’m trapped. The realization hits me hard in the gut, and I struggle to keep my standing. My chest tightens, my hand finding my keys like a dagger. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
A hand rubs my back as my stomach ties itself in agonizing knots.
“You don’t have to let it control you.”
I gag, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my heart. I’m shaking.
“The sun is setting. Watch it with me, please.”
I heave, my insides twisting against brambles.
“For both of us.”
I retch, ridding myself of the pain at last.
The creature from within me rests in a dainty coil inside the cup of my palms. I should be surprised to be holding a snake in my lap — especially one that emerged from my bowels — but all I feel is a true state of peace. She’s calm, too. Tired. If snakes could blink, her charcoal eyelids would be drooping to cover those emerald eyes. Oh, am I tired.
I raise my head to the sky, my vision finally clear. In the west, the setting sun creates a spectacular display of dappled clouds and swirls of daring fuchsia and bold carnelian. The hills cushion the sun’s descent, accepting it into an embrace. This kind of tiredness feels different, I realize. Not like the desperate exhaustion you feel sandwiched between hours of work you’ve done and hours of work left to do, but the kind of lazy tranquility of finally sinking into your mattress. Nothing more to do. Just be.
I pull Sage to my side, feeling their warmth. “Thank you,” I say. Thank you.
*****
Before we travel back through the dusk, I gently lay the black serpent on the earth. Without the slightest hint of urgency, she weaves herself through the tall grass and away into the night. Something tells me that she’ll be back; that I’ll writhe in pain again, wanting so very much to hate her. But I can’t. She’s a part of me, after all.
So for now, I let myself fall into that moment after I’ve let her go. Let myself lean into the solicitous embrace of the canyon oak. Let myself sink into each musical thump of our heavy boots. Let myself be here, perfectly far away from all of my worries.