Mount Hollywood

I have always loved the sound of gravel crunching at my feet, the heavy panting and warm blankets of sun splayed over my shoulders.

These moments remind me that I am here.

Maybe one day the Devil will pull me deep below these golden hills, where no water can reach. Magnum will crush me into a treasure that people will not care to seek in one thousand years.

Perhaps I am cynical, and instead, an angel will come down from these blue skies to swoop me into feathered arms.

How I wish to be cradled in light, cocooned in the way that my brother and I used to wrap ourselves in sheets — rolling in laughter until hitting hardwood floors.

But I am not an agent of these memories, nor can I read the minds of the higher powers above.

My memories play back like old tapes, with oil stains that change the story.

For now, I am just here, where the air and water is clean. The taste of salted sweat on my tongue, and the soft ache in my toes as the pads of my feet hit the earth.

I will walk for a few miles before these moments become memory tapes again.