Memory Mountain

You don’t want to go all the way up the mountain. Go-hards tend to make that mistake. But go-hards aren’t the type of people that keep her advice. She knows this.

You want to take it easy up the mountain. Her place isn’t on the steep path. There’s a nice little alcove where the tree line takes a break, and the cabin is right there. She knows where to begin based on how sweaty you are.

She’ll offer you a drink. It’s different for everybody. Sometimes it’s loose leaf tea. Sometimes it’s a minerally French red. Sometimes it’s a regional soft drink that fizzes you with so much sentimentality you start reminiscing about perfect Saturday mornings you never had.

Then she’ll tell you a secret about life that will change your world.

She asks that you don’t write the secret down. You can if you want, but once you try to record the advice you’ve already lost it—not all of it, but trust me, it’s a fundamental mistake.

The secret she told me was something like, “Presence is an infinite present, and don’t try so hard.” I typed it into my phone, but something happened when I upgraded and I can’t find the note anymore.

You’d think she’d be a stickler about phones but she’s not a stickler about anything.

Are you sure she’s not up there anymore?

I’ve heard some big shots say that they’ve visited her. So maybe she’s gotten too popular. She might have moved somewhere else, but she’s not hiding. She’s not a hider. She’s too beyond to hide.

My husband went to see her once. He wasn’t my husband then. He started becoming my husband when I found out he’d seen her too.

‘Seen her,’ isn’t the right way to describe it. You’re definitely around her for a few minutes but it doesn’t feel real. Sometimes I can’t tell if I dreamed the meeting or if I really went to see her. If it was a dream, I wouldn’t feel so bad about forgetting exactly what she said. I try to remember. I picture myself in the cabin years ago, but I can’t see it. I don’t really remember what she looks like, or what drink she gave me.

I remember the drinks she gave other people.

She told my husband, “Listen for the whisper, be informed by pain. Hold on to no parcel, and you will find your lane.”

Now come to think of it, you kind of look like her.