The Closest Looks We Ever Get
in the past year I have driven by Mt. Shasta,
north or south, ten times at least
I think of her every time,
knowing what happened up there
I remember her kindness,
her smile, her silliness,
and watching you two reconnect,
I remember feeling lucky to see part of your life through her,
I remember where we visited her, an Oregon town
with less purpose now,
I remember our dinner and drinks and the angle she sat,
I remember saying goodbye in the parking lot,
and I try to remember what her voice sounded like
I remember her telling us
she was going down to climb the mountain soon,
and that she would see us again
I remember your phone call that morning,
through tears, listening to your shaky voice in the dark,
telling me she was gone
I remember the old video of her in the car,
sporting sunglasses, turning to the camera
and laughing a goofy laugh
I remember us sitting atop terrace hill, both times,
evening and morning,
sharing remembrances of her,
of searching and finding,
of friends and long car rides,
of new homes and guideposts,
of ski trips and tent spikes,
I remember your anger and sadness,
both right and direct,
but thankful you got to see her again
that sharp white mountain —
bracing and towering,
cold and forever,
big brother to the smaller one,
piercing the sun,
seen for hundreds of miles in every direction,
where the sky cracks in circles,
committer of robbery —
brings her name back to me, every time,
in mind or on tongue,
spelled phonetically,
summons her face to the feeling,
and holds me in a place where we used to be,
before meanings of mountains had shifted,
before that last pilferage,
where grief was once shared between us,
an unbearable weight to look at and touch,
to pass from your hand to mine and back,
to try to make room for, begrudgingly so,
to slink towards and away,
maybe drink from its side,
someday ask and make fun of
but always held tight
