The Definition of Time

Chapter 1

you can love someone
but a love that's not meant to last
rather,
this love is
a love that's only meant
to be a shooting star
a brief glimpse
or dream
of bliss

meant to be experienced
not preserved

not a forever love
but a moment kind of love.

August 13, 2013

My dad's strong arms envelope me for a moment, crushing me against his chest, and I hold on for dear life. Don't leave.

"You'll be okay, peanut," he smiles, but I know that his smile isn't real.

Mom stands behind him, a pencil in her fingers poised over her alphabetized list, "Are you sure you packed sunscreen? Extra socks? A roll of toilet paper?"

Her eyes spastically jump from the paper to me, and I wonder who needs more reassurance, me or her.

"Yes, Mom. We triple checked before we loaded the car. Dad even stopped to buy me more trail mix at the gas station," I smile as much to dispel my own concern as hers.

"I think I stopped because you had to pee," Dad corrects with a half attempt at humor.

Mom touches my arm gingerly, "I'm proud of you, sweetie."

"I know," I laugh, but unwanted tears still form in my eyes as she hugs me.

Her hug is almost violent in its sincerity. It tells me, it's going to be okay, Rach. You'll be fine.

I signed up for this trip four months ago on a whim. I had been accepted to attend Regent University when a flier I received in the mail caught my attention. "Wilderness Program." The letters were bold and blue and accompanied by soaring panoramic pictures of mountains and forests with an isolated hiker or two thrown in for good measure.

My dad caught me looking at the flier and exclaimed, "A backpacking trip! You should do it, Rach. You love hiking!"

I do love hiking, though Dad loves it more. Dad, Gramps, and I hiked the Appalachian Trail by our house regularly. This program, however, was a two week backpacking trip at the beginning of my freshman year. The trip promised team-building, outdoor-exploring, and friend-making.

I had a rare moment of brazen courage and signed up. That brought me here, standing in Regent University's gymnasium in gym shorts and a ratty t-shirt with a backpack that weighed about half as much as me leaning against my legs.

I see student leaders in matching red t-shirts holding signs with our names on them. The leaders area bouncing all over the place, their exuberance so darkly contrasting my stark fear.

"You ready to go in there?"

Nope.

Mom and Dad are standing outside the gym with other parents as equally reluctant to surrender their children as they are. Right now, all I really want to do is desert my backpack and run back to my dorm room to hide for a few weeks before classes start.

Dad senses my reluctance and wraps an arm around me again, "You'll be fine, Rach. What's the worst thing that can happen?"

Don't get me started. My over-active imagination has already explored quite a few worst-case scenarios, including but not limited to being eaten by a grizzly bear, being left tied to a canoe in the middle of the ocean, and being burnt alive in a forest fire I accidentally started that also kills an adorable family of opossums. Smokey the Bear will be so disappointed in me.

"Go get 'em, hun!" My mom finally adds with an encouraging shove.

I topple forward and my backpack falls to the floor of the gym, a loud bang echoing when my caribiner connects with the floor. My face heats and I shoulder my backpack, staggering under the weight, and set off to find my team.