sunrise

From Masada to New York to Salt Lake, I've followed a steady string of sunrises halfway across the world. Sitting here at my computer, in our frigid Salt Lake City sunroom, I find myself backtracking the miles from B to A, retracing my steps to the top of Masada.

Hiking through the dark, my chest tight and pounding, I remember explaining esoteric English vocabulary to Bar, our Israeli madricha. We stumbled over dry creekbeds and pressed our knees down against the stone steps, our eyes occasionally spinning up and back to look at the stars, speckled and brilliant against the navy blue sky. I lagged behind as we neared the top, my head aching and my sweat turning cold on my back. And then Elliot, who I still didn't even really know, was there standing next to me, with a quiet word of encoruagement and the soft presence of someone who didn't mind waiting up. We reached the top together, and I collapsed on a rock to gaze out at the distant Trans-Jordan mountains, glowing faintly with the coming dawn.

I watched the moutains glow brighter and brighter, butter yellows and blue-pinks oozing up towards the fading stars. We crowded around the cobbled defenses, elbows rested on the stone walls that held in our ancestors as we locked our eyes to the peaks across the valley. I can still see the sun as it appeared, suddenly, as if by magic, in the crux of two dark peaks. A distorted orange orb peeking up and out, its attention focused not on us, but on warm blue sky stretching endlessly above it.

Weeks later, I spent a restless night in a navy blue upholstered airplane seat, my nose runny and my eyes crusted open. Every now and then I would glance out the window, focusing vaguely on the black behind the oval where I could find no landmarks. Twelve hours passed on that plane; leaning up against Nathan as he drifted through medicated sleep, glancing back at him enviously through restless eyes as I woke, again and again, to the tone of the fasten seat belt sign. We landed at JFK at dawn. Walking down the glassy terminal towards passport control, clutching our bags to our chests and talking feverishly, I began to realize that soon, we would all be gone. Outside the window, through dark grey clouds on a backdrop of white-blue, the sun rose vaguely over the airport. The dull thunk of stamps on passports yanked us to the baggage claim, and within an hour, I found myself alone, dozing restlessly in another blue chair and waiting for the sun to set on my next airplane.

And then this morning. I didn't take Tylenol PM last night, and so at 5:00 I found myself alive and restless, twitching like a bellydancer below my heavy down comforter. I spent a few moments thinking about my muscles, a few moments thinking about the weather, a few moments thinking about hot black tea with sugar. I listened to three songs on my iPod (Pretty Things - Rufus Wainwright, Fair - Remy Zero, Against all Odds - The Postal Service), read two chapters in a book my father gave me months ago, and then put on my glasses. I watched the dark branches outside my windows grow backlit with the dawn, watched the sky morph from black to blue in the quietest way possible. The clouds, strung out at high altitude, stayed grey with the morning. I took a deep breath and stepped out of bed, treading down my house's carefully carpeted stairs to a glass of tea and the computer screen.

My cold fingers, clacking at the keyboard, can only reminisce for the Middle East.