I dream of Mexico beaches or nights along the river walk—a destination. As usual, you won’t commit to anything until it happens. There’s no talk of tomorrow or where we’ll be a year from now.
I press for a plan; you say you’ll surprise me, but last summer, camping on the Llano, you brought no food, not even a pan for the fish we caught. I fumed,
but if we had stopped to cook, we’d have missed that armadillo just off the path, moonlight glinting on tarnished armor, a found coin in the dark.
So, this time, I wait and see. Sunday, you pull me into the jeep and we head northeast down back roads, find Cottonwood Flat and Little Rough Creek. We wind through red clay canyons caught in clear March light, the air tinged with old music.
Settling into the day, I inhale fields fresh with winter rye, just ripened to the shade of sex. We drive every road, and you, the newcomer to this land, take me places I’ve never been, though we don’t even cross the county line.
This morning, that same strong light slants through bedroom blinds and sprawls across our hearts. I know there’s no plan for this day or next year.
But I recall yesterday — the way we suddenly twisted out of the canyon and up on to the flatland. You turned to me and smiled, and there before us lay a red dusted carpet of a road, unfurled all the way to forever.