Under ContrailsMy father is dying. He is hauling his life like a wagon of stones up a mountain, a frayed rope, an attenuated will, into the comfort of less mind, the solace of not wondering. ![]() The name of the mountain escapes me, the city nearby. To tell you the truth I can barely remember—a rental car away from Seattle or Vancouver. Long roads, lined with plowed snow, narrowing. ![]() Bare-chested on a windy ledge, we stared. In one direction for a thousand miles the snow is a clean sheet of paper, written with pines. Branches, all morning, shed snow, returning to form, lightened. |
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