I spent the last eight nights sleeping in a hammock with my husband, staring up at the stars.
My vision is pathetic and I wear contacts, so that’s typically a complication. I should take them out early, so I don’t risk falling asleep in them, but then I can hardly see the sky. I take a chance and wear my contacts until the last possible second. I only fell asleep in them once this trip and woke up that morning with my eyes painfully red—I can feel good about those odds, so overall, I’ll consider it worth the risk.
We stayed on a small bit of land my parents have owned since I was a kid. I flashback to my childhood memories of my brother and I helping my dad to clear the property, then playing hide and seek, or paintball among the overgrown trees. I remember the summer my brother fell hard, butt first into a cactus—with its infinite fine-haired spines—which immediately penetrated his layers of clothing and implanted in his bottom. No one would help him, so in the end, it was me who spent hours with tweezers in my hand. If we were keeping score, he would owe me for this still.
The best parts of my life happened within these few miles. I spent my summers here, playing with my cousins and my childhood best friend. If the wind blows just right, and I close my eyes, I can still hear her laughing.
There is a quiet little cemetery just up the road from the property where my grandfather is buried. Though nobody likes a tattletale… I secretly sneak off to visit him at least once a season and would consider him pretty much in the loop.
My parents’ property backs up to an empty field of scattered mesquite trees on the edge of a valley. The land is flat for a bit, but then the mesquites (always prettier and greener from a distance) gently climb over a hill before they disappear. The sun hides behind the hill in the evenings, and right before the mosquitos come out, the sky catches on fire and shows off those beautiful Texas sunsets I find myself missing so much.
This trip, we set our hammocks in a small grove of trees on the edge of the property. The deer were angry at our presence, and we feel a twinge of guilt for invading their space. We see sightings of them in the evenings, but mostly, they wake us up in the mornings in kind of a noisy and angry way, which I have never actually seen a deer act.
My husband and I have dared to call several places home, yet as I lay there in the evenings and sway in the trees, I realize I feel more at home here than in any bed I have ever slept. I find myself wondering why people ever bother to spend money on building houses.
The mornings were cool and dry. Eager to get out on the water, we would eat quickly, then head to the lake through a small footpath we cut through the knee-high grass. The wildflowers were in midsummer bloom, which meant the fields displayed a gentle balance of flowers in all stages of life. Tall, colorful blossoms were sprinkled about, mixed with wilting flowers, showing signs of wear from the hot sun. But almost more beautiful to me—the dead and dying flowers which were slowly taking over the grass, leaving behind delicate dried stalks.
I find myself fascinated with this balance of life and death. Those flowers so full of life, growing next to stark reminders of the end which is to come. And yet, those dead stoic flowers still standing tall, encasing the seeds of the future generations. I wonder if the colorful life next to them understands they owe themselves to those who stood before them. I wonder if they pay homage as they gaze upon death and know they too will someday pay their debt and fall for the future. But for now, they are all just standing together.
And then there is me—lying face down in the dirt—taking pictures of it all. And feeling like somehow, in this field, during this season, neither life nor death is out of place. And somehow, they are both beautiful, and for a brief moment, everything belongs.
