a well-watered place

The fall is hold­ing out against the win­ter, trees clutch­ing bright leaves before the chill breaks their grips. It’s won­der­fully warm among such colours, and we walk in the val­leys of Appalachia to take in the smell of moun­tain air as rus­tic hands around us work live­stock and soil. In old Aramaic, Damascus means “a well-watered place”, a fit­ting name as the rain soon grows too heavy to be explor­ing the tiny town, pop­u­la­tion 981.

looking over a bridge

 

Dairy King and Mountain Dew

I won­der if Dairy Queen was named as such because the restau­rant here already took Dairy King.

cowbell alarm

How to tell you’re in farm coun­try: a cow­bell on the front door, used to notify the wait­ress of customers.

Roadkill Cafe

 

A baby-faced farm hand with a grey Polo t-shirt stretched across his pot-bellied frame asks us what we’re tak­ing pic­tures of as he dips a thin sand­wich (con­sist­ing solely of two slices of meat and two slices of toast) into a shal­low bowl of beans. He recounts to us the two weeks he was in Western Canada work­ing for a large cat­tle cor­po­ra­tion, and the thick­ness of his south­ern drawl betrays the rural­ity of his upbring­ing, typ­i­cal of many around here.

train car

 

feet in leaves

 

Damascus river

 

Every day the sun rises, I grow a lit­tle stronger. The blood in my bruise has spread along the sur­face, and the sharp­ness of this par­tic­u­lar pain reminds me that I’m still alive. As the yellow-blue stain fades away, it’s a small com­fort to know I’m always heal­ing, whether I’m aware of it or not.

3 comments

  1. Yep. You sound very much alive. Congrats :)

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