You Can't Have It

The road in between Fresno and Paso Robles could be one of my favorite places in the world. The hills are long, and round, and in the spring have little patches of blue and orange and yellow to break up the green.

I dreamt of living beneath them as I drove my little black car toward them, and then through them. Never over them, though. I dreamt of plowing fields for grapes and then looking up while wiping the sweat from my eyes and seeing them clearly, knowing that they were mine.

But then I shook my head. I realized with sadness and hope that they would never be mine. You cannot hold on to hills and grass and blue flowers. As soon as you get a good grip summer comes and the grass whithers, the flowers fade. Then, there is no point in holding death.

"Drink up, child," they said to me, "for tomorrow I will be gone. And you will be gone too. Your grip will slip from life's hold just as it slips from me."

So I drank, and was satisfied, and then I turned my gaze back to the road.