Depression and Texas heat held me down hard one summer until I discovered a glittering mineral spring in the scrublands. The clear water looked shallow but I jumped anyway, sinking to the bottom where its surprisingly cold depths closed over my hot head as smoothly as a glove, yet infinitely more shocking. I emerged gasping, and smiled. That blue pool is long gone but I remember it the way others might remember frosty beer sliding down a parched throat, or sex with a perfect lover who got away. We all want the salvation we remember, even if it’s gone forever.
Sarah Flick lives and writes in Colorado, specializing in micro fiction.