Fourteen
Late one balmy June afternoon,
I perched on an outcropping of obsidian rock,
watching wide-eyed up the mountain
spewing molten lava into the sky. I was fourteen.
The base was fringed with a blanket of the green canopy,
which abruptly ended halfway up,
where the the bare rock face stood out like a scar.
The towering volcano bore its wound proudly,
roaring its challenge, molten spittle flying from its mouth. I was fourteen.
What must it be like to have the power to create and destroy?
Closing my eyes, my feet left the outcropping of lava rock.
I joined the flow of lava,
reaching out and devouring the nearest organic material,
traveling farther, over the outcropping it had taken years to build,
hissing as I cooled, leaving my mark on the majestic landscape. I was fourteen.
My hands trembled as I raised my small blue camera,
trying to capture a snapshot of the incredible force of nature before my eyes.
A tumbling rock, slapped the mountain side.
The resounding crash vibrated through my feet.
A shiver, that had nothing to do with the sinking sun, wracked my frame.
If I had ever needed proof of God, I was witnessing Him at that moment.
There I stood, weeping with awe, fourteen.
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