2009.08.06
In the shadow of the mountain
My dearest son,
I remember. All the mystery, all the awful truths. I remember. Today would have been your 30th birthday. For the past five years I’ve spent this day crying and refusing to leave the house. I need to let go, even though I don’t want to. I can never forget, but I can try to end the suffering.
I remember 30 years ago the world was bright and full of promise. We lived together the three of us. It was a small home. But it was ours. Our place, our life. The spark that started things when your father and I were 17 continued on, and we made our way in the world. You were our shining star, and the spitting image of your father from the day you were born. When you were with him, a fierce pride shone on his face, and he would have done anything you asked. You know the truth now, and I’m sorry I lied to you. I had to lie to you because I lied to myself.
I remember that day in third grade. You got in a fight with another kid who was teasing you about not having a father. You came home crying, and we ate cookies and drank milk and talked about it. I don’t know if you understood then, but I told you it was OK to miss him. I hope it’s OK, because I never stopped missing either of you. I desperately needed to believe that. And still do. Your father was a good and decent man. You were a good and decent man. Even then, after the fight, he would have been proud of you. I was. You were so like your father then.
I remember when I went on vacation with your aunt twelve years ago. You were working at a summer job, saving for University. You were so like your father then. I came home and you had cleaned out the storage room in the basement as a surprise for me. All the dust was gone and everything was neat and tidy. I’m not sure if you saw the fear in my eyes when I noticed the box. I should have thrown it away, burned it, destroyed it utterly. It was all I kept, all I had left of your father.
The box was unsealed.
I remember the look on your face. You knew I had lied, and you seemed sad instead of angry. Of course, we never spoke of it then. Or since. We just went on like nothing was wrong. Like nothing had changed. You were so like your father then.
I remember when I got the call, how numb I felt. You never returned from that hiking trip, and they never found what was left. Because they didn’t know what to look for. I knew then that even in death, you were so like your father. What brought you there to him? To the place he went? And what happened there? I needed answers, and so a year ago, on your birthday, I found out.
I remember when I got to that place in the shadow of the mountain. I knew the trail as if by instinct, although I spent my whole life avoiding it. As the hike wound on, I felt a mix of both anticipation and calm. Like I was going home for the first time in years. At last I arrived at that stand of aspen, arrived at the truth. You and your father, dancing in the wind, calling to me.
Join with us.
I remember laying hands on you and your father. All at once I saw everything. The same story repeated two decades apart. The same passions, the same fierce determination, the same fate. It was painful and beautiful and violent and powerful and so agonizing for me. You were so like your father as you were transformed.
I remember the others calling to me also, the way they must have called to you. You were both always searching for something, and you both found it. Having looked upon your faces in life I could not bear to look upon them now. At once beautiful and grotesque, I knew then that I could not join you. That fate was yours alone, not mine to share.
I remember the anger as I turned to leave. I was angry at you, and you were angry at me. Part of me died that day and stayed with you, but you wanted more than I could give. We all knew I would never come back. And even if you could read this letter, you would still not understand. You are so like your father that way.
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