And God Itself Has Memory of Nothing

I dangle from an overlook, hanging over the confluence of the Colorado and Green Rivers in Canyonlands.  It is de-peopled and treeless, visited by wind alone.

The wind dies.  The sun stops in its arc and holds itself in place.  The La Sal Mountains, still snow-capped in June, lay silent to the east. Clouds pour up and over the summits and freeze in midstream.  The world pauses, skips a beat.

My future, yet unreal, disappears like a wisp of cloud evaporating over the distant Needles. The past sails on into the world of the dead, muted forever.  My life becomes eternal, not in some never realized potential floating just over the next ridge, but Now.

My Lover, this deep bow of earth, surrounds me, impels me to dive into itself.  It has no memory.  It has forgotten the mistakes of my past.  Just for this moment, no history binds me to certain ends.  The laws of cause and effect are suspended.  This wide basin releases a tide that sweeps away the future. I am relieved of all hope and worry.

Then the sun starts its trek across the sky again.  The wind whips up.  The clouds over the La Sal’s inch over the horizon.  Above me, a tour plane begins its drone.

© 2014 by Michael C. Just