PAONIA, COLORADO
(Population 1,436)
Margo McCall
It was the place they stopped driving. A town on their way somewhere, spread out and green below the mountains. She asked him why it was there. He had no answer. They saw the organic produce sign and stopped. Peeled a peach in the sweet sunlight.
She can’t recall where they were going, what they were looking for, following the highway along a crystal stream cut through red rock. Sand slipped through their fingers and they were tired. Lost or out of gas. They had love, were looking for a place to plant it.
Then and now are separate. There’s a rustling in the grass, an animal feeding in the backyard. Something is rising, water gurgling from a fountain made of mossy rocks. The houses are old, wooden. Inside them, people eat and sleep. Their happiness coils around the rafters like vines, the fragrant white flowers giving their lives sustenance.
It’s August now, the days of heat cut by cool mornings. She picks slugs in the garden, watches the tomatoes grow fat, the peppers extend to their full length. Flies buzz about, sucking up heat like the fruit, for the days are growing shorter. Shadows lengthen in the orchard, dappled light of leaves shivering like water and rock.
She lines up her afternoons and he the mornings. Night is shadowy soft with brushing winds and moonlight painting them silver. They stand like statues in the cold yard watching stars fall to earth. The stream murmurs white wetness just beyond the horizon. They are here. They are now. Not lost, for they are home.
