So on my final morning, I walked the neighborhood streets, passing by rock-lawns with cacti and palm trees sprouting up in front of flat, adobe-style homes. I walked briskly in the cool, dry air, the mountains on my right, the sun glowing shyly behind them. A little farther into my walk I looked to my right and saw it—a kiss, the top of a golden sphere gently filling the curve in the horizon, radiating warmth into the blue morning air. I stopped to take a photo and, pleased with it, thought, This is what I want. I want more of this.
Energized by the prospect of more, I moved quietly in pursuit of the still faraway peaks, chasing more sun, more beauty. The quiet of the neighborhood streets let out to main roads with rude, rushing cars, encouraging me faster toward the trail. The closer I got to the entrance that would lead me up into the sky, the giddier my step became. I wanted to stand in the spot where the sun would burst out from the valleys between peaks, where I would get my perfect shot, a photo to remind me the moment was real.
As I began to climb, small pebbles slipping under foot, my body delighted in the chase. I hopped and scuttled and side-stepped along the narrow trail, and for a moment I was so entranced by the ground beneath me that I forgot to look up; I could not be bothered with the sun. I marveled at the ages-old rock with its micro-cuts—chipped at ever so slowly by humans, by winds and rain. Yet there it stood, powerful in its peace, assuming nothing.
I remembered the sun, and I looked up to see if it would greet me, but it eluded me at each place I landed. The higher I went, the farther it dipped below the peaks; it did not want to be captured. Not then.
But still there was that kiss. And it was intoxicating.
