The Conjurer

THE HILL

When we first met we flew off the hill with a vagabond abandonment. Laughter was an envelope of warm current of air that lifted us, gliding and drifting in the reminiscing and sharing of our pasts. With each flush of discovery, we would sail upwards, until the time came when our feet would gently caress the earth once again. Gathering our memories, we would ascend lightly up the next slight hill, only to joyously leave the top and soar over the plush cushioned meadows beneath. Over and over we would do this, half the time of every hour would be spent flying. Then, as the weight of familiarity and those hardships of the road up the hill increased, the hills became harder to climb and seemed more steep. After years we asked ourselves is this all there is, the climb, the throwing over the edge, the long walk up the hill. Somewhere we decided it wasn't worth the daily climb, that the thrill of the fall was gone, and that the next time we made it to the top we would just stay there and make it comfortable. Until the day of the accident and I awake falling, either having been judged or by turning over in a dream. Frantically clawing the sky, not remember this feeling and how close panic is to ecstasy.

Sunday morning, and you woke up alone.