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samanthaa .

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cosmictuesdays

The Golden State.

You have always known you do not belong to the land. You know the land does not belong to you. It has not belonged to anyone for a long time. It is cared for, by those who understand, but they cannot be said to own the land as it once was. The land remembers. There are bones in the mountains.

The land is cared for, by those who came before, by those who will come after. You learn to listen, to be kind to the land. The land is never kind in return. The land can be good, can be generous, but it will never be kind.

The mountains rise around you, North and East and South and West, the edges of the horizon. There is nothing after the end of the horizon. You have been there. You have come back. You have seen that there is nothing.

You pick an orange, a lemon, cherries, grapes. Given to you by the land, you eat its fruit. You drink its water. You partake in the contact.

You are ten years old, finally old enough to understand the contract. The stewardship. You are called, and you look up, around you, and you understand. You were chosen. You were unlucky, you were lucky. You are taken, laid out in the parking lot, stripped bare for all to watch and learn and see and understand. As you look up - your last clear sight - you understand the sky is not the color blue. The sky is the truth of blue. The purest form of that light that could ever be. As you look up, you are opened, emptied, disassembled. Your bones are given to the trees, your flesh to the grass, your blood to the flowers. You give yourself, you are given, to the land. This is the contract. This is California.