There’s a certain hour of the morning at this wintering time of year where the sun shines through my bathroom window, through the glass shower enclosure, and sparkles off the water as it cascades down on me. Not today, nor any day this week, as it’s been nothing but rainy and bleak outside. But some days.
We have woods out back, and privacy, so the shades on that big window are always drawn up. I love to stand there on those mornings with the sun on my skin and the water droplets, a thousand tiny prisms, scattering its light. It feels primitive, in a way, like a sun-kissed waterfall in some beautiful and solitary place far away.
There’s a waterfall I love, where the water thunders loud and cold down a 20-foot drop into a shimmering pool. It’s just a short walk away from the road, and always busy in the summer. But when the weather starts to turn, when I’m driving past and see the parking area empty, I stop and take that walk. At the end, Silver Run Falls roars and pours down just for me. I scramble over the rocks to stand at the base of it, feeling the spray. I allow its noise to quiet me. As thousands of gallons of water rush past, I am still. Sometimes I call up the memories of being there with my husband and children. Rader was in that place, alive. Heard that roar. Felt that spray. We swam in the mountain-cold water, searched the bottom for pretty pebbles, picnicked on the boulders. Once, together, we were amused to see a lady walk the trail in high heels.
Recently I saw a woman emerge from her car there with a pair of hiking poles. I bet the flat, 200-yard journey was not quite what she was expecting. But when she came to the end, I hope the falls were the exact destination she was seeking. They always are for me.