“Close your eyes, relax, and imagine that melted chocolate is oozing out of your ears,” says one.
“And ramen noodles are coming out of your belly button,” says another, and it is so ridiculous and so perfect that all five sisters laugh at their nonsensical meditation.
They wear various patterns of florals and stripes with yellow and red and blue and cover only what must be covered. With backs on warm, penny-sized pebbles, they show their bare faces and palms and thighs to the sun.
One peeks, sees the trees like tall green paint brushes stroke the sky. By their tanlined feet, the water flows cold and clear and slow, so slow that it gives no clues as to which way is upstream and which way is down. It doesn’t matter, anyway.
They dive in just once, hot bodies swallowed by frigid mountain water, and then dry in drips as they laugh and talk about kissing and stupidity and luck—or was it love?
“I have a good life,” one says. Her half-dried hair is becoming a crown of frizz. “Do you have a good life?” she asks.
They are together and they are warm and they are in their favorite place in the world. Yes, each one replies.
No one else floats by, wouldn’t dare when the glowing sun worshippers are here. This piece of time and place belongs to them. The sun belongs to them.
The dry world is burning in sadness, its skin cracking and flaking, but the river queens can’t be scorched. They don’t even see the smoke.
Commenti