Plans to make plans to make plans...

August.

It's been raining here constantly, save the weekend we all packed up and hiked into Crow Pass, where Eagle River was pouring over its banks, flooding the trail, soaking our boots. Chilling our bodies when we stopped to take a dip, to cool off, to remind ourselves how small we are, how powerful, how willing to carry things.

Family reunion time. We've all gathered in four houses, three motorhomes, and a tumble of catching-up. There are bonfires and homebrew, and lasagna in huge cast-iron pots, table settings full of flowers and seashells. Wedding presents. My brothers are here. My cousins. My sister. My parents and grandmother. And soon we'll all be leaving again, our reunion a brief respite from the weight of oneself in the world-it doesn't seem so bad when someone is there to pat you on the shoulder, to hug you, to offer you the last scoop of cookie dough, the first one fresh from the oven.

Where I'm going is coastal mountain range. Where I'm going, there are marine highways and colonies of writers and music festivals. Where I'm going is the sea.

My cousin and her high school sweetheart will celebrate their wedding tomorrow, surrounded by all of us, raucous and giddy on my uncle's homemade wines. My brother and his fiancee arrive tonight-her engagement ring is perfect, at least that's what everyone says. My sister and her boyfriend will be there, his hand on the small of her back like always. And there will be our parents, and our aunts and uncles, and their friends, happy in the longevity of their lives together, content to watch.

There's still a picture or two of us somewhere. In one, we're slid together in a bar booth, the light low and our heads together, our smiles the same, eyes cast down on your camera, revisiting a moment that was only moments ago.

In the other, we're up on a mountain somewhere in the Tombstone range, and you're holding the camera at arms' length. Our hair is longer now, and you haven't shaved. I'm half-hidden behind you, my knees supporting your torso, and you're smiling, but only part of the way, mouth turned up in the way I love, because it mirrors how you look while someone else talks story, like you're getting ready to have something to say.

And it's dim in one and bright in the other. And it doesn't matter how different each image is. It doesn't matter that nothing's the same.

All around me, people are putting their lives together, grafting them like cuttings from one tree onto the next. In three weeks, I'll leave here, where those pictures were taken.

I'll be off, somewhere, bearing your weight against my legs, bearing this like I bore your body on mine, your face pressed into my neck.

All around me, there will still be mountains, still the dim lights of booths or campfires.

My heart is breaking. My heart is broken, and I've never been so full of joy.