There's Was Something About Mountains Then

…it’s like a mountain of memories you’d have to climb through. You’d have to sort the good and bad, happy, sad, angry, feverish and focused, confused, dazed, torn and bridged, splattered and static, grateful and selfish and used, morose and forlorn, giddy, high, joyous, sinful and insane, forgotten, missing and longing; you’d never sort through it all. You’d never see the top. The fog. The mist. Those clouds. You’d have to pull me off the rocks, the ground, the dirt, soil, pebble - like rubble. I’m rubble. You’d have to remove me from that mountain. I’m inside like tree roots. I’m the leaves. I’m the cliffs. I’m the noise. I’m the moss, the bark, the grass, the subtle lights inside the trees; I’m in every place of that mountain. You’d never be rid of me. You’ll never climb through that mountain. Or fly over it. I’m the storm. The rain. The snow. I’m the avalance in winter and the ligntning strikes in summer. I’m never letting you scale this mountain. Never. Not the top. Not the middle. You won’t like the foot of the mountain. The roots, the shrubs, the rocks, the trees - they are the foundation. The meeting, the youthful fun, the learning, the growth - they are the beginning of the memories. The top? Who knows. You won’t. Sort the mess blown over, the mess grown over, the end of over is at the top and no, you’ll never know. You’ll never sort through it all. It’s mine. His. Ours. And you’re nowhere in this mountain. It’s all us. Moss, tree, root, cliff, rock, bark, grass, sky, storm, clouds, rain - fly; you can’t fly. Or climb. Walk away now. Farewell…and leave us be.

by: Elizabeth Azpurua (me)