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The Unpaved
by Michelle Davidson Argyle
The sound of hunting horns, when it dies,
On the wind, is like our memories.
—Guillaume Appollinaire
Preparing pasta, I let the water boil. Ben salts it just as the steam begins to rise, and I place an uncooked penne noodle in my mouth. When I bite down I taste wheat, but Ben doesn’t taste what I do; he glances in my direction, eyes disapproving my eating habits. He is teasing more than disapproving. I smile.
The culture of my religion tells me I will know when I have met my eternal soul mate. I have always been doubtful. This future of knowing is like my faith; it is weak and unplanted. It is a seed still in its packet.
We are hiking up the mountain. They’ve paved the trail to avoid erosion. In some spots, they have built rock retaining walls, and the stone they use is different than the natural stone of the mountain. I am ahead of Ben for most of the hike; we meet each other at intervals to share water or licorice. The candy is sticky in our palms, and as I watch Ben lick his fingers, I wonder if he is paving the trail that links us together.
Inside the caves, they turn off the lights. I can’t see anything, not even my own hand placed an inch away from my vision. But I can feel. I feel Ben’s hands slip around my waist. I feel his six-foot height lean down to my five-foot-two. I feel his lips on mine, cold from the cave air, wet from my mouth to his mouth. I remember the tour guide’s description of cave deposits and how they collect to create formations that last millions of years. He said earthquakes can shatter them. Ben’s mouth against mine is cave water, leaving deposits that I know will shatter only under the greatest of stresses.
When the pasta is cooked, I drain it steaming over the sink. Ben is on the couch asleep, or pretending to sleep. My hope is that he watches me out of the corner of his eye, watches as I pour the olive oil, dice the tomatoes, grate the parmesan. My hope is that he finds me beautiful. As we eat, he touches my hand and thanks me for the food. This is pavement.
Near the canal, I see the mountain rising above its foothills, like a goddess standing to speak to the mortals. But in her presence I do not feel mortal. I know the paths on that mountain; I have seen her heart glow red in the mortal’s artificial light. Her heart was created from deposits, and they say it bleeds because of loss. I watch the mountain breathe. If her breath spoke words, she would tell me not all her paths are paved.
My memory is a seed, daily watered and properly looked after. But I am deceived when it grows and yields tomatoes instead of pumpkins. I was hoping for pie and ended with salsa.
We are floating down the Green. Dip-paddle-push, dip-paddle-push the heavy water aside; move us forward. I feel the sun on my bare shoulders, warming skin that has been cold for months. It feels like Ben’s eyes from across a room, melting the nights I have slept weeping, and in the morning, my pillow has grown frost. Here, on the river, Ben’s warmth is the sun, and the sun is so thick it has roasted the hills, has started fires and blackened the trees. This year, the river is low, and our paddles slip past fish. I can taste their Cajun flesh on my tongue. Too bad we didn’t bring a pole, or even a net. Here on this river we fight rapids not half as angry as they were a year ago—but Ben wasn’t on the river then. I glance to his lean form, bending, dipping, pushing—his muscles as determined as rapids—I think he might not join me next year. This river may never taste his skin again, his knuckles grazing the surface as he oars.
We are in a city of red stone. These paths are not paved, but are tread and pounded by nations that come here in awe; only the beginnings of trails are paved. The rest is left to dust. Please leave Nature as you left her and take only your memories. I cannot travel to the heart in this valley, but I hear it beating orange below the sand. I hear it in the wind-stripped Ponderosa when we put our noses to the bark to smell vanilla. I am still ahead of Ben, but we do not meet to share licorice, and this time I do not wonder if he is paving the trail between us; seeing dust, he has chosen wind and its erosion.
We are making pasta, leaning over the waterfall and opening our mouths to the Fourth of July—fireworks red as bleeding hearts, and just as loud. If I swallowed this cold night, it would catch in my throat like overheated sugar, then land lump-heavy in the heart-space I sewed shut the night Ben touched my toes, elbows, and lips. We are sleeping under the moon, finding falling stars and making unspoken wishes. Our nights in open air have not pressed us closer together, and in this city of red sand, I cannot find the mountain and her weeping heart. I am cold until morning, but find even the sun does not warm my skin.
I have unplanted my seeds, and I’m standing beneath the sun, in the snow, hoping my feet will root and spread. If I could grow I would be a pine. I would not lose my leaves. I would stay green.
Preparing words, Ben lets the water boil. I will not thank him for this meal, for this offering held to me in his open palms. I will remember leaning against my car, zipping ourselves into one jacket and growing frantic when we found the zipper stuck. I will remember a hundred different things he never knew; he hands them back to me, exposed and black as deposits that have been marred by human skin. The cave guide said earthquakes could shatter them. Ben’s skin is an earthquake, and I am trembling when he walks out the door.