The Mountain

The climb took more than we thought and from the top we could see the breadbasket. We pushed into a place where the air spread out and our lungs shrunk--we could feel it happening. Our ribs like the birdcage under a blanket in your attic with the white bird still inside, throat sore from silent singing.

There's Alaska. Better yet, Russia--ignore the compass. We ditch our coats. We made better sons and daughters at sea level. Our hands were filmy from sorted laundry and produce purchased. A conclusion: posture does not improve with altitude. We gain nothing but yards and a walking stick.

I took a picture and on the back I wrote I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I am happy. I left you there feeling like you were in outer space. Maybe. You asked for this because everything feels easier. Your limbs were curling like the first time you came only this time I won't look.