stomach of the night
there’s a slight sprinkle outside. it’s not enough to warrant staying inside, but it’s enough to make the leaves on the trees heavy. more towards the campsite, there's quite a big lake. the moon shines on the water, creating a sort of painting of purples and greys and dark blues.
we’re quite far from the lake, in the parking lot of the campsite. elliot’s a little jumpy– the park ranger came earlier, asking us whose car was running near the adults’ cabin. it was his father's, of course. but we shrugged it off and said we didn’t know. elliot’s father and his uncle came later, at separate times, lightly reprimanding us for drinking at the wedding– claiming that the park ranger ‘saw underage kids drinking.’ the scolding wasn’t a true scolding - not the one my mother would give us if she found out we were drinking and smoking weed. his father was lighthearted, a cracked smile splayed on that slightly tanned, pepper-and-salt face of his.
elliot lights his joint, his face immediately erupting in shades of oranges and yellows. i lean on the bed of the truck, arms crossed around my boobs, watching the smoke floating out of his mouth, as if it were a quiet, gentle spring stream, young fish bathing. there’s no noise between us for a few minutes - just us two staring at the forest in front of us, the outline of the trees against the sky, the mournful dripping of water off leaves. i inch closer towards elliot, pressing my wide shoulders against his.
tonight, the silence is odd. it’s not swallowing me whole, keeping me in the stomach of the night until i can claw my way out of the pregnant belly – the womb of the night. however, it’s not a warm, gripping embrace of a mother about to send her daughter off to be wed – a daughter who’s not hers anymore. there’s no tears, no snot.
tonight, the silence simply is.