Sifting through old writing

Found this from late 2007, and it still resonates with me:

Warmth.

The sun shines through small crevices barely formed by leaves and the thick summer air, shadows falling onto the packed dirt trail. My feet hurt from walking. My soul aches from being. Ahead, a broad river stretches across my view, left to right, north to south. It's more of a creek, really. The clear water rushes over stones and sand, pushing along debris as it surges toward its final destination, possibly a lake farther down the trail. I wait for them to catch up. I rest against the rough bark of a nearby tree, reveling in the tactile sensation of a solid something. The smell of wood and earth is overwhelming, and I melt into the safety of it all. From my place in the shade, I watch as the few people bathed in sunlight walk along the edge of the creek, looking for a way to cross it.

A man with a grey shirt stretched taut over his belly wipes the perspiration from his forehead distractedly. He bickers with his wife, a stout woman with a red visor resting atop her head. She wears hiking boots, worn from constant wear.

They gesture to a part of the creek that runs at a slower pace. A few steady rocks jut out from the glassy surface, providing a more reasonable means of getting across the body of water. It seems the logical choice. But even farther down in the distance, the creek seems to narrow to a point where it can be singlehandedly leapt over.

But it could just be an illusion.

In the heat of that August afternoon, sweat trickles down the sides of my face, heat from my forehead making its way down across my cheek and dripping along the length of my neck. I turn back to watch, expectantly, as I hear their footsteps approaching. My heart rate is slowing and I catch my breath as they join me in the shade of my tree. They look just like how I feel. Tired. I shift uncomfortably, pushing away from my tree trunk, stepping back into the intricate shadow designs that fall at the center of the trail.

Suddenly, I wish I hadn't waited.

"So?" I say, just for the sake of polite conversation as I wait for them to catch their breath.

"It's gorgeous," he finally says between a deep inhale and a wholehearted exhale. "Let's do it."

She seems less certain. She utters a wordless plea with her eyes. Exhausted. I know the feeling.

"It'll be good," I say, forcing a smile, knowing even as I say this that I don't know that it'll be okay. All I know is that at this moment, I need to start walking. And the good will catch up, or it won't.

He follows. She lingers by the shade.

I step into the blinding sunlight and reach the edge of the creek. I can feel the crunch of the pebbles and sand beneath my shoes, but I can't experience their smooth edges and grainy texture. So I sit down at the edge of the water and remove first my shoes and then my socks.

The water looks deeper close up.

I dip my toe into the creek. Icy cold, a stinging contrast to the suffocating heat of the afternoon. A welcome contrast. I feel their presence behind me, but I don't look back. I wade into the water, the sensation of cold prickling at my ankles, my calves, my knees. And then I glance over my shoulder. They're just testing the water. I'm somewhere halfway between the shores, and if I wanted to, I could crumple from the cold. Be carried downstream.

But I now long for that heat. So I plunge on, thrashing through the knee-deep water, making a scene and not caring.

And suddenly, the cold falls away from my body as I step onto the firm ground of the opposite shore.

I regain feeling in my feet.

And the sun warms me.