Halfway up the mountain a grown man sits, solemn, in a patch of daisies. A moment later a preoccupied black bear lumbers in the distance, first toward a clutch of trees, then out of sight. At the top I can see Mt. Baker to the east and twelve ships out in English Bay to the west. And far beyond.
On the way down, the sunset pierces me exactly where my longing lives. I ache for Venezuela waterfalls that I will likely never see, for a polished amage in Buenos Aires, for this year’s crop of yellow-centered forget-me-nots in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, for this year’s horned lizards zipping through the Gila Wilderness.
I am ashamed of days when sunsets came and went and I stood stapling minutes into board meeting packets till dark. And I am not ashamed, too. It was expected and I had agreed to it. Now my job is to see what I can do to help out God whom I have sometimes blamed for being blind.
In my dreams, my mother sings to me: “Das gibts nur einmal…” I shall wear red to honor the unseen.