The Mountain

Self-confidence is fickle for me. It stands so high I only ever get a glimpse of the face. Though overwhelming, I know this height is an illusion. Confidence is not made of stone. 

It’s a lurid warming season, of illness and passing. Everyone is glorious and I miss them so much and I am glowing and sad from distance. 

How life used to be, sweet rushes to get places. Being late. Why do I miss this? Hugs, the long and short stays in coffee shops, and bars, and bookstores. 

My partner and I take socially distanced walks in the park. He says he could do this for five years, ten years. This routine. 

I remember how much I wanted to live in the mountains. Here the only mountain is “lookout point,” bordering Windsor Terrace. “Love the one you’re with,” comes to mind. This mountain being one. 

I am grateful I get to teach. Fingers to the keys once more: five to six hours before a screen takes up so much mental space. I dream about reading early reader books on youtube while drinking wine. My time has become a blob. This sameness is tiring.

One morning I close my eyes: weary, dusty apartment eyes. I see a meadow of purple wildflowers. The familiar doubt floods me. To give myself away may break me. But the only thing to lose is my ego. Cliche? Yes, but it’s real and it’s time to stand up, I remind myself. Again.