Day 1 in Coal Country
I enter the mountains in the night like a fugitive from the city. It’s 11 o’clock and the town is quiet. Lighting on the streets is limited. Danger it seems, lies in sharp curves, steep streets and wrong turns. After several steep inclines and circles I reach my friend through a miracle of cell phone reception at the top of a hill. She finds me, a block away from where her friends live, at the local nursing home wandering like a patient who has temporarily lost her memory. Glad at the sight of her, we embrace and stroll down dark streets to the sound of barking dogs and coal trains rolling in the moonlight.
My city at eleven by contrast is fully lit. The streets are rivers of movement, surrounded by sirens, concrete and unnatural danger. Streetlights shine all the time whether residents are asleep or awake. We don’t control the power switches, but maybe we could.
In the mountains as a stranger, half lost and far from home, I feel a sense of refuge, which I can’t explain. But perhaps the danger here has learned to be quiet. City life lends itself to suspicion. I look over the mountains in the moonlight and I can’t resist, I am overcome with gratitude. I’ve fallen prey to the gifts of 360 degrees of silence, strength and beauty. For better or for worse I am already in love with the mountains.
We spend the evening at Lady’s Night drinking, dancing and singing. By bedtime, around 2 am, the air in my lungs feels heavy and my mouth tastes like metal. I don’t know what is in the air here but whatever it is my body knows the difference. I check my bag for my asthma inhaler, slip it under my pillow and surrender to restless dreams of ghosts and friends plotting community change.
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