Mountaintops
Starting over from prison
The door is broken. Off its hinges. I pick it up, light as air, and set it against the wall. Go to my shelf and hover like space station Muir. Another day winds to a close like bumblebees asleep on flowers. Stage lights turn down.
I reach inside my drawer for something to insulate against the summer AC and pull on the stretched-out gray sweatshirt with spatter marks from welding class. When I come to the living room to sit my chair she asks about the iron-press name tag.
This is my sweatshirt from prison, I say. Oh, she replies, why don’t you throw it away? I tell her I keep mementos from my worst experiences as reminders. Her head spins and she screws her face like maybe I’ve misspoken. But I haven’t misspoken. My worst experiences are the experiences I keep in arm’s reach. Times when life broke me off like a rock and sent me to the base of the mountain.
Things I saw on the way down the mountain: purple flowers, day-hikers, grazing sheep. Scrub brush, boulders and scree. Men and women straining beneath heavy packs. People near top and people near bottom. And then, of course, the foggy illusion of my former success burning off in the hot sun.
“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” -J.K. Rowling
