There is nothing nice about death, nothing pretty or
beautiful. There is no peace, just stillness. Stillness is loneliness.
Stillness is loneliness.
Hills, mountains. They were small mountains. Small mountains with paved roads leading halfway
to the peak, small mountains with a footpath of dirt and pebble leading through
forest. Here the trees keep their green leaves
year round to shade the mountain, and my shady blonde hair was caught in the
corner of my mouth, tangled across my face, hooked around my nose. That mountain-climbing
wind knows how to share its affections, welcomed or not.
Up here I am near them all. Up here I can think around them,
not have to call them by name.
I think about director Tony Scott stepping of a bridge in LA
two days ago. I think of Speedy Peterson’s unidentifiable face, frozen with
frown, still missing his sister even in death. In bending for a handful of pebbles, I lose my
balance but recover just enough to throw them too hard over the edge of the
mountain ledge, my fingertips stained with chalky brown dirt. Up here I can
think of everyone else’s deaths. I can pluck the blooms from the trees, I can
spit groans and screams and hear the sister mountain’s response.
There is nothing passive in me now. There is nothing passive
in this voice. I know what that earthless breeze feels like.
These men have names.
