That River in the Mountains

There were good times. Like that time on that white mountain made for boys but filled with little girls. There were bunk beds and trails and streams and stories about friendships that would last a lifetime. I loved life, then, without thinking. Without thinking I loved all things in the universe. Without thinking I had a love that could last a lifetime between those girls, those songs, that camp fire, that cabin, that mountain, that cold frigid air, the blowing wind cold enough to wear three layers and still get wet. I remember the time in life as happiness even if at the time time I could not grasp the beauty of the moment quite until ten years later until I was too old to do nothing but think. To be happy because of the thoughtless spirit of existing just to trifle with the idea of what next could follow the path of just two feet in front of me instead of forty or sixty or a hundred all at the same when I could only accomplish just one. I loved myself, everyone around me and everything inside me without knowing. Grasping nothing and the world at the same time. With the same audacity that water exists inside a glass but is transparent in color and taste. I was all that could be with being nothing at all. I was a young girl.