08.27.2003 - 3:04 p.m.

My family went for a vacation in Utah and Arizona. This was several years ago now, and I think I've told this to nearly everyone I know, but it's still...here with me. We showed up at the Grand Canyon pretty late at night, no-cars-sighted-in-hours late, coyote-crossing-the-highway late. And because we'd been in the car since lunchtime, we checked into the cabin and went for a walk around the visitor's center, Dad leading, Mom following, the brothers and I shuffling stiffly in between. You couldn't see anything but the path immediately in front of your feet, the pool of light at the visitors' center behind and to the left, and the empty dark of night.

I'm not sure exactly who anymore, but I think it was one of the brothers who finally kicked a pebble into the blackness to our right, which swallowed it for many heartbeats before giving back a small, faraway sound of striking rock.

We all looked into the darkness. "Guys," someone said, "I think that's the Canyon," causing everyone to step back, and Mom to grab for the littlest brother's hand and say, too brightly, "Well, that was a lovely little walk. Bedtime, anyone?"

Looking back I can still feel the thickness of that empty space, the weight of its nothing, the abyss looking back at me not as a threat, but in profound indifference.

It is so hard to understand the hidden dangers even one single step away from where you stand. I spend so much time feeling them all around me, and I always forget to remind myself that even when they are absolutely as large as they seem, goddamn are they beautiful.

-stonebridge

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