Eternal Return Of Fratilda
Winter changes to spring, spring to summer, and as surely as August flips forward onto our calendar, we vacation in the mountains.
Fratilda lurches forth from the RV and her deep, hungry breathes seek to stuff a swollen chest with wafer-thin air. We lumber towards the log lodge's sliding glass doors as one, as gelatinous, sentient meat sponge and her splintering, arthritic walking stick.
Fratilda, Rays of my Moon, gazes down the set of stairs with a condescending disapproval. Whipping up the air with her thickset arm and calling out as a bellowing echo in a canyon, she summons mortal men, a whole army of them, to her side. Wavering before her mass, knowing circumstance as disposable, minimum wage service, they take up great armfuls of flesh and carry her down. They look at me like it would be best to roll her down; that I should take this as my true, "I do" oath.
How can I explain?
All things seem small next to my Fratilda, my Sweating Glacier. Her appetite leaves great gashes for valleys, and her tears quench fauna and flora, raising them up from the ashes around her. Where workers once griped from malnourishment and managers strained at the reins, Fratilda, Napalm of the Forest, brings woe and terror to all who must take her vacation into their hands, reducing them to a trembling puddle. She makes the mountains themselves seem small, and when she turns my way, I'm giddy as a mudslide.
"Honey, get me a fork."