On the basis of what I took to be his vandalized spirit, he could have been my father. “Can you help me?” he said.
“Follow me,” I said, absent the intonation of a leader.
I wanted to go to the top—but this man, he looked as though he had fallen. (On his jeaned knee, some gold dirt.)
While a finch’s cheeps snipped at our footfalls, fog blanched our view of the mule fat. Amid a crowding pallor we rose.
I said nothing.
I said nothing still.
At last, he said, “I want to get off.”
This, too, reminded me of my father, who cheated on my mother continually.
“I mean down,” he clarified. “I want to go home.”
“Is home where the heart is?” I said, because I could not help myself.
I cannot help myself.
I thought of my wife and my dogs, even my child.
Free of leashes, my palms opened and closed like tulips—the top of this hill was my object.
“Pardon?” said the man.
The fog fed into the idea that visibility is glorified, and I have so often wanted to recognize God.
The man said then, “You are not helping,” which, when I am prayerful, is how I have imagined God speaking the truth.
And I wanted to blame them, him and Him, seeing as this was or was not my choice.
But I just kept walking, okay? I did not turn around. I did not stop to touch the golden yarrow, I did not begin to feel. I covered my ears.
Later, I understood, this is exactly how you go on.
Zach Davidson's recommended reading: Iris Murdoch, A Severed Head; John Berryman, Love & Fame; Yasunari Kawabata, Snow Country; Piecing Together Los Angeles: An Esther McCoy Reader
