The rain expands everything, gets into every corner, soaks every fiber: our bags, our clothes, our hearts. And there is water in the tent. A puddle has formed in the indentation over our heads; my friend rumbles beside me, punches at it and suddenly I am wet, awake.
* * *
Memory is an abiding boulder. The details fuzz and the spaces fill with trivial green things. Still, in these nights, I am haunted by that monolithic image, the one of hikers rounding up a steep stone staircase in the dead of dark, headlamped and flashlit. A hundred human fireflies twinkling into the thorn crowned forest.
There are ways to worship. There are ways to worship: the roar of waterfalls, omnipotent and omnipresent.
* * *
It is possible, as all things are possible.
* * *
Years from now, can you say, in this dream we were not afraid. Only angels along the way as we climbed, hand over hand, up the line that led us to heaven. Oh but I am godless. Oh but I am without fear. Oh but tomorrow resurrects itself, day after day after day.