When I was six, my father would wake up early , pack the gorditas de queso con rajas Mama prepared for him on the comal and he would then set off into the mountains to get firewood for my mother. The six year old in me would watch him cross the arroyo, past the cactus groves until he reached the skirt of the mountain and he became no more than a small moving speck. My eye would trace him even then until he walked into the morning fog and the clouds swallowed him up. I was fascinated by the idea that my father was walking among the clouds and the six year old in me always yearned to follow him. When I became a man, I moved to Oregon to climb the mountains of my youth. But no matter how many I summited, I never found my father there. But the mountains remain. And I walk them still...
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 00:26:27 +0000
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