I walk alone in the night, sweat from the heat and exercise beading up on my back, arms, neck, and under my breasts. I look up at the inky sky and see a streak of light slice the star-sprinkled darkness. And I’m reminded of a story a man told. One where high in the mountains the stars fell around him, the air so thin he swore he could hear the crackling as they burnt up in the atmosphere.
And then I’m reminded of other stories. Pictures men have painted for me with their words. A horseback ride through the desert. A herd of giant kangaroos surrounded in a misty morning fog. A lake of snowy ice surrounded by a silent forest. A bohemian shelter in a Grecian cave.
These pictures. I cherish them. For always.