Warm Memories

George wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, not sure if it is sweat or tears, and keeps walking. The dusty, barren path is not quite how he remembers it, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Each step forward brings him closer and closer to memories he hasn’t dared to think of for a year. One whole year. He has lived thirty-six of them, but none that seemed to last as long as this one had.  

If there’s one thing that life has taught him, it’s that time is fickle. Like the blazing, Arizona wind tugging at his loose t-shirt, it comes and goes how it pleases. Sometimes gusting fast, bringing a cool touch that tickles the sweat on his skin, reminding him of how Jenny used to scrape her nails along his forearm when he was stressed. Sometimes slowing down so much that is almost seems to disappear, leaving him alone on this strange, familiar, trail he never thought he’d see again. The same one he never wanted to leave, if you had asked him eighteen years ago when he first met Jenny here.

When they were both eighteen, fresh out of high-school, they joined the Arizona Conservation Corps to get outside for the summer. To do some work that mattered, or well, that they thought would matter. They spent six weeks building this trail, Badger Springs Wash Trail in the Agua Fria National Monument. 

They spent six weeks falling in love. 

Well, two weeks falling in love, and four more head over boots, nothing else in the world matters, in love. They spent countless nights huddled up next to each other, smelling like sweat, dust, and sage, staring up at the stars. So many stars, and none of them shined as bright as the glowing girl George held in his arms. 

He holds her in his arms again now, but no longer does he feel her warmth. No longer does he smell the sage in her hair. No longer does he hear her shallow breaths as she drifts off to sleep. Feel her heartbeat against his own. All that’s gone, and it has been for a year. An entire year, he thinks to himself. All he’s left with now are memories, the urn that holds her ashes, and this trail they helped make together.

Somehow, despite his own doubts, the trail has withstood the test of time. There are more than a few stretches overgrown with the scrawny tangles and prickly edges of desert flora, but there are no deep rivets, no large rocks looking to snag his ankles, nothing that leaves him with regrets. The trail may be empty of people, but it is still here. It may not be perfect, but it takes him where he wants to go. 

The Agua Fria river babbles along, eddying in front of short, gray boulders and gently lapping against gravelly banks. Hanging overtop the shallow water are the bright green leaves of a cottonwood tree, swaying gently in the breeze. The rustling of a white-crowned sparrow knocks a few leaves loose, and sends them tumbling through the hot air, and drifting into the lazy waters of the river. George stands on the riverbank, watching the leaves gently float away, feeling a few unmistakable, silent tears drip down his cheek. 

Across this river, right here, was their spot. On the opposite bank, there is a small patch of grass grown underneath the shade of a cottonwood. It isn’t much, barely wide enough to fit two people, but for six weeks it never mattered. George remembers the first night they made love on it. It was right there, just twenty yards from him now. In that grass, beneath the rustling leaves, amongst the rhythmic chirping of crickets, alongside the gurgling waters, and under the glow of a crescent moon smiling down on them, they fell in love. It was that night that Jenny had said, “I wish we could stay here forever.” It was that night that brings him here, eighteen years later, and a year after her heart attack, to fulfill the first half of that wish.

He slips off his hiking boots, ignoring the stench of his feet, the burning sensation of the sun-baked sand, and the loose prickers stinging his toes. He steps into the Agua Fria. The name is still misleading, he thinks to himself as the warm current sucks at his ankles, but he scoops some out and dashes it over his head anyway. Already, even after just an hour of hiking, he can feel the warm crisp on his forehead where he’ll no doubt find a sunburn later, but instead of fretting about it, he enjoys the sensation for it’s old familiarity.

The river is easy to cross, and he makes it to the other side without so much as getting his knees wet. He places the urn along the raised riverbank with two hands and watches it for a moment before deciding it won’t fall. Then, he clambers up the bank and slides onto his back. Short, soft blades of grass tickle at the nape of his neck, and for what feels like the first time in a year, a smile cracks across his face like a lush canyon through a barren, stoney desert.

The leaves dance overhead just like they did eighteen years ago. Suddenly, the memories appear not like some hazy, distant mirage, but they envelop him like a warm blanket. Like that Arizona breeze, so dry, so hot, is wrapping around him to comfort him. Like Jenny herself is nestling against him here, her skin so warm and dry from the day in the sun. The smell of sage being carried by the breeze reminds him of the way her hair always smelled. So earthy, so faintly fruity. He takes a huge breath and almost laughs as the memories pour back into him. Almost giggles like he used to back then, because suddenly back then doesn’t feel so far away. Doesn’t feel so back then. It feels right now. 

Time is fickle. 

With the music of warblers and finches to lull him into a trance and make the dancing leaves of the cottonwood not seem so out of place, George closes his eyes. Clutching tight to the urn, he lets himself drift off in his memories. He hugs that urn, hugs that warm breeze, and plays back lost memories suddenly found. He sees the way the moonlight danced across her bare skin the first night they spent together. The way dirt caked her face at the end of the week and she would laugh as he told her she still looked beautiful. The way she murmured in her sleep and clung even tighter to him when it was a nightmare.

Then, memories not lost, but ignored because of the pain they cause, come back, too. For the first time in a year, he doesn’t push them away. He lets himself feel them, feel something again. He sees the way she looked as she walked down the aisle, red curls draping down her shoulders, green eyes glistening at him. The fear on her face before they went sky diving. The smile on her face when their first child was put in her arms, and the way she would roll her eyes as he told his dad-jokes to that same child ten years later. He sees a million things, feels a million more, and melts into the loving embrace of that grass. Disappears into the comforting blanket of warm wind. Sinks into memories, happy, sad, and everything in between. 

It’s not until the shadows draping off the canyon walls grow long and purplish that he rolls over and notices the sun behind the distant mountains is nearly set. He finally sits up, knowing it’s time, but as he thinks about what he has to do, his fingers only tighten around the urn. How can he let her go? How can he let her be somewhere he’s not? Even if he’ll join her one day, what about all the days before that? 

“I wish we could stay here forever.” 

Her words, whispered so tenderly in his ears, come back to him in the calm, warm breeze of memory. 

George stands, and in the dim twilight twists the top of the urn. Round and round, looser and looser, it slides off. Inside is a fine gray powder that doesn’t look like much, but means everything to him. A tear slides off his cheek and lands on it, darkening the color in a tiny, perfect circle. He shudders in a half sob, half giggle, both miserable and ecstatic at watching her catch his tears one more time. She was always there for him... always... and now he must be strong for her, too. 

He looks up from the urn, gazing around at the beauty of the canyon. Where a few hours ago it all appeared dry, jagged, and harsh, now the dull light softens it into a pastel painting. Drooping shadows hang from the Palo Verde trees, mimic the tall saguaros standing like a waving stranger, and cling to the backside of every little bush. There is no life around, no other animals to be seen, but as he takes a scoop of her ashes in his hand, for the first time in a year, he doesn’t feel so alone. 

Once a worthy enough gust of wind picks up, George lifts his right hand high above him, unfurls his fingers, and scatters what’s left of Jenny into the blue, purple, pink sky. The breeze picks her up, and delicately floats her down the canyon, alongside the Agua Fria. He watches as the clouds, the faint remnants of her, move ever so gracefully, swirling away. How many times has he watched her walk away? And of all the times… this may be the most beautiful. She’s free, full of grace, and in the place she loves more than any other. There are no worries, no stresses, no pains, nothing that tethers her to this world other than whimsical winds of her home and the memories that George keeps tucked inside his heart.

George does this again and again, but before he lets all of her go, he saves one last handful. On the ground beneath the cottonwood trees are tiny little white seeds that were once covered with a cotton-like collection of fibers. This late in the summer, the fibers have all but deteriorated, but what’s left in his open palm is the seed of a cottonwood tree. He puts it in his pocket and makes his way back across the river. Without the afternoon sun raising his body temperature, the river finally embodies its name. 

Firmly on the other bank, he scours the ground for a spot close to the river but without other species that might out-compete a young cottonwood sapling. It takes a few minutes and a short jaunt downstream, but eventually he stumbles upon the spot. A small patch of moist dirt right along the riverside that will be close enough to get inundated with water during late-summer monsoons, but not so close that it will get drowned throughout the year. Collecting dirt in his nails, he claws away at the ground until finally he’s satisfied with the small hole.

The urn is still faintly warm from the afternoon sun, and so he presses his lips to it, kissing Jenny one last time. It’s not half as sweet as it once was, but it makes his heart flutter even still. Of all of life’s joys, putting his lips to hers was the pinnacle, and will always be.

With the cottonwood seed placed gently inside, he mixes her ashes into the soil and covers it up. He gives a final pat to smooth out the surface and reflects to himself. Perhaps, in fifty years, another young couple will meet beneath the shade of this tree, and perhaps another young beauty will whisper to her new love, “I wish we could stay here forever.”

George heads back to the trail, ready to give his son a call when he makes it to the truck, but before he leaves the canyon he turns back to gaze around one more time. Across the way, a mottled grey and white cactus wren sifts through the sands with a tiny, pointed beak. The plumage marks it a female, and even though it’s not Jenny, and he knows that, it makes as good an audience as any for his final words to her. “Nathan knows where to bring me. I’ll be back before you know it. Time is a fickle thing, my love.”