by Swetha Amit
The view from where I stand is a vast red abyss, with layers of rock stacked like chapters of a forgotten book. I see tourists posing for photos, standing precariously at the edge where the boulder drops steeply, and a careless step back would be a fatal fall. I instinctively reach out my hand, a gesture to warn them to be careful, my voice still choked in my throat, etched with the weight of those haunting memories from almost a year ago. The blazing sun casts mirages of those fleeting moments when I knelt down, asked her to be mine, and when she said yes, her lavender perfume intoxicated my senses, my grip loosened, and she tumbled backward, the diamond ring still glinting on her finger. Below, the Colorado River appears as a tiny, shrinking silver thread, trapped between the magnificent boulders, like the numerous bodies lying there before they were found, discarded, and forgotten. The viciously beautiful canyon could be ruthless, yet its silent beauty also strangely offers a balm of calm and a place of refuge, urging me to learn from my mistakes and move on.
Swetha is an MFA Graduate from the University of San Francisco. The author of a memoir and three chapbooks, she has appeared in Had, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, and others. A member of the Writers Grotto, her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fiction, and Best Microfiction. She can be found on @swethaamit on Instagram and @whirlwindtots on Twitter.
Photo Credit: David Lusvardi on Unsplash
