The Mountain
Each December, I return to the desert to inhabit the foot of a rocky giant. For one week, I live in its shadow; a silent monolith that swallows the amber light of the early evening long before the sun sets. Sounds are dampened, made softer by the looming behemoth.
I have made this pilgrimage ever since I was young. Each year, I come as a different person, shaped by the inevitable triumphs and scarring of life. Memories of the past are buried here. Some are sharp and jagged, painful to touch. Others feel soft and warm.
The Mountain is beautiful. Its tanned and rocky surface casts shadows as the sun moves through the sky. Small green and brown brush peeps out from between the rocks, a reminder of the resilience of life. Each year, I change, but the mountain is unmoved. It is the fixed point by which I measure my own drift. It is a stone mirror, reflecting back to me how far I have traveled since I last stood in its shadow.