At seven years old, I met rocky red.
It hid beneath the glistening snow. It pokes its head through the dirt on the mountainside. But I did not yet know how much I would get to see of rocky red.
I truly met rocky red a few months later.
It glowed in the morning’s sun-brightened sky. It spoke to me in words of the past and future, told me of its relatives I had not met but one day would. It told of experience and actions.
I stood in the Garden of the Gods feeling as though it lived up to every interpretation of the name. Rocky red was molded into shapes by its past lives. I walked over the stone path, avoiding tiny, sharp cacti. I stepped off, and up the rocky red I went to higher ground. Rocky red brought me to a height that was triple my own.
Rocky red brought me to new places.
I hear rocky red all the time.
The next time I saw rocky red in all its glory, I brought a piece home with me. I climbed rocky red stairs in Red Rocks Amphitheater, amazed at all of the rocky red. In a monotonous world of rocky red, I felt as though every rock was unique. I stood below the stage as rocky red told me about all the great performers it had seen. As it told me of the years it had weathered before then. I walked across the rocky red dust of the parking lot, wishing I had my own piece of rocky red.
I see rocky red every year. It lines the manmade roads, screaming about what has been done to the world it has been watching. It yells, covered in screws and nets with signs saying “CAUTION LOOSE ROCK.”
Rocky red was not meant to be caged.
Rocky red followed me to Utah and Nevada. It rose up in great mountains. It filled itself with bushy emerald green trees and dusty green cacti. It showed the shapes it had become naturally over the years. Rocky red showed me caves, beehives, and elephants it had made. It spoke to me, saying, “Look at what I can do on my own.” Even in rocky red structures that had been molded by man, it gleamed in pride.
Rocky red showed me how to live.
I hear rocky red all the time. I feel it as I stand above it. I cannot see it through the snow that hides it, but it tells me that it’s there. I feel it, miles away, through my camera. It tells me to come back, faintly through my phone.
Rocky red is everywhere, just not here.
