The Mountain

The trees whisper to one another. Their voices are masked by the wind, each drawing laughter and lilt, love and sorrow from a summer breeze. Together they tell the stories of the mountain.

Around me is desolation. Memories linger everywhere, and names are mentioned often, breathing longer life into the memories. The trees remember. They recall the days of slow rebirth, aching pain and ash. The mountain is their guardian, but a fierce one, demanding much and giving slowly. Flowers crawl their way up the dried embankments, desperate to live, desperate to love, desperate to bloom wild, winsome and free. The lakes, like puddles, huddle at the foot of the mountain. They glisten blue and purple in the sunlight, happy offspring of the past destruction.

Memory. It's everywhere and nowhere all at once. Everywhere we remember without really remembering.

I look at the flowers. I look at the lakes. I look at the trees.

I try not to look at the mountain. This is odd; after all, it is what I came here to see. But the mountain is ominous, reminding me of the suddenness of tragedy. While the birds sing and the trees whisper, a deeper voice is heard. Through the beauty of this day, the shadow of another rises up, reminding me, reminding all of what once was.

The mountain is speaking.

Its voice is low, its message short.

I listen well, and remember.