We would glide through the meadow grasses of the valley at dusk. The old mountain men would paint the sky purple just for your girl you would tell me, purple the color of my blistering sunburnt shoulders. The blissful dusk winds would wash away the sting. You would justify it by saying that dads don’t know how sunblock works anyways and that I'll be tanner than you by the end of August. Under the clouds with the approaching moon we would hunt for crickets. You would dangle the green creatures over my face and tell me that if I soon did not wash off the sticky popsicle on my lips the creatures would feast upon the sugary sweet reminisce of cherry artificial flavoring in my sleep.
When we would race back into the cottage the sky magically went dark. You would tell me you prayed to the moon Gods to make sure their moon did not take over the sky until your girl was done playing outside for the day. I would wonder in awe how powerful my Dad was that he could control the same moon that controls the waves that tickled my toes at the beach. You would deepen your voice and bow to the picture kitchen window above the sink piled with a week's worth of dishes and say thank you to your godly friends as I would giggle in amusement. You would tuck me in with a sandpaper rough washcloth to my forehead to keep me cool as the ceiling fan danced above me. You would tell me stories about how the natives formed the mountains, and how their spirits kept us safe in our valley.
On car rides to the river you would sit me next to cousins, our bug bitten legs polka-dotted red would dangle out the tailgate of the Subaru as you turned up winding mountain roads. Our feet were invincible, calloused over with days gone by of barefoot hiking over broken branches and thrown river rocks. We would unload from the trunk and those feet would tromp through the bush and brush to our secret river spot. The water was arctic, runoff from the mountains cleansed not only our dirt caked hands but our souls every summer. We would hold our breath to the point of parental worry under waterfalls. We would tear our bathing suits and bruise our bodies black and blue riding the current down river. I was seemingly born knowing how to swim and fight my way above the water against the rapids. You would hold my hand as we jumped off trestle bridges that county police gave fines for, you would state that you can’t put a fine on fun. And when our day was done and you called me out of the water I would say,
“I never want to leave.”
When the trees turned their red, orange, and yellow pleasantries we would dance hand in hand under their falling leaves. By now the summer tourists were gone and our valley had once again fallen quiet. We would stroll through the cobblestone paths to Peaches Diner. I would hop on one foot across the staggered stepping stones, brazened through the forest. The air was already getting chilly. I would warm up by “our” booth next to the roaring wood burning stove. It was only a matter of time before my cheeks became reddened by the heat, the same color of my fiery hair. I would order a stack of the fluffiest chocolate chip pancakes stacked higher than the odds I never knew were against me. Yet for the time being those pancakes become a cloak of comfort no matter how cold the world got. You would walk me through the growing piles of leaves to the first day of school, the autumn air at 7am was extra brisk. After ten minutes of walking my legs would grow tired of walking and I would request to be carried on your shoulders. I thought I was taller than all the mountains surrounding me, my three feet stacked upon your six. When I was time for school and you requested me to disembark from my throne upon you neck I would state,
“I never want to leave.”
When our sleepy autumn valley came alive with skiers come December, the tourist trap shops opened up and encased our valley into snowglobes reminiscent of what was outside. The snow sprinkled my hair like ice cream sprinkles as I would long for summer and pray the cold away. That was exactly my prayer at the Our Lady of The Mountain Christmas Eve Service. I had never seen our tiny church so full. I was never more proud to see you preaching the message of our God and deities to so many strangers, my distaste for tourists turned into love as I heard each and every voice repeat after you.
Gliding down the mountains you would tease me about your “olympic skills” stating if only you could have gone pro.
I was weary and wobbly on my skis no matter how many afternoons I spent learning from whom I presumed was the best. I was only six wanting to be just like you. The snow I would shred up became matted into to my hair and freeze to my face, yet I would refuse to leave until well after dark protesting with
“I never want to leave.”
Once my bones had shaken the winter frost the spring air never tasted so sweet. The sunflower fields towering much taller than me were my favorite to spend my after school afternoons playing in. You would pick me bouquets of buttercups and dandelions instead of the colossal sunflowers and vase them on the kitchen table for our tiny Easter dinner of two.
That Easter we had bunny burrows in our yard. You would never let me get close enough to touch the fluffy tailed spotted bunnies, but that sure did not stop me from trying. As soon as I would make the run for it hoping to capture one to keep as a pet, you would swoop me up under your arm and spin me around and around until I was dazed and dizzy and place me in the grass. The clouds swirled around me and mixed into the baby blue sky as I laid on my back.
Our spring picnics were spent at the scenic viewpoint, fighting for the perfect patch of sprouting grass, nudging all the incoming summer tourists away. Pink lemonade and crackers sustained me as I would reject your fancy cheeses and jams.
I would roll down the hills, the grass skidded amongst me and stained my knees bright green. I was once again getting dirty in the spring dirt, foreshadowing the coming of summer. When you told me it was time to go home and take a bath I would state,
“I never want to leave.”
Now at eighteen leaving this place I swore up and down I would never want to leave at six, I take a final look at my valley. Every shade of blue imaginable blended with the purples to create my mountains mixed with the sun set curated by the angels. I have had no business being here since you passed exactly one year ago, all my sweet memories have now soured. The mountain air has grown far too thin for me and I'm suffocating in what once was. I have had no business being here since you passed, all my sweet memories have now soured.
I can’t look at the mountains without craving the feeling of being taller than them one last time.