Going Down the Mountain

Stop hiding behind those tall hats and dark shades. Take a trip 70 miles down the mountain to visit the boy who burns his toast to conceal the staleness and spreads imitation butter against the grain. He drinks from a faded black mug with three chips around the mouth and a faint crack at the base, holding onto the handle that was glued back on when everything fell apart. He learns his catechism from putting charcoals on the butcher paper that he gets at the corner from Tony's Meats. He skips rocks at the pond on a partly cloudy day and chases the girl with the curly pigtails and the dimple in her chin that is too big for her visage. He never catches her for long and prefers to go fishing. When the pond fails to inspire him, he goes to the roaring spring where the water invigorates and enlightens him. Follow him there. Take a hard sip from the spring. Put your sunglasses in your pocket and your hat in your hand. Go back up the mountain with a confident gait and the posture of remembrance.