Sometimes when I think of the mountains,
I recall one particular memory of my youth;
My mom had made a new friend,
Most men in her life were transient,
And this one was no different,
Except his voice and eyes were kind,
He gave me an antique book of poetry,
And took my mother and I one weekend
To the mountains in West Virginia.
I’d been to the Skyline Drive a few times,
My dad was a slow hiker but the mountains
Were so close by you couldn’t not go,
But this was the first time I’d spent a weekend,
And all I can remember is not wanting to be there,
Feeling a loneliness so all encompassing
That I forgot I didn’t actually go there alone.
It’s funny, because sometimes nowadays
I go to the mountains to find myself,
Breathe in the fresh air, enjoy that I’m alive,
And although I don’t go there alone either
There are pockets of time I enjoy being
Just one solitary person in this world,
And feel the absolute peace that brings.
I wonder if it’s age or perspective
That teaches you that just because you’re alone
Doesn’t mean you have to be lonely,
Or because I’ve slept in beds
With people so unaccessible to me,
That I end missing the comfort
Of my stiff mattress and three pillows,
Wishing I were alone just so I could sleep.
And maybe that is my fatal flaw,
That I long for people when I’m alone,
But can’t actually connect with them when I’m not.