Looking at the Mountains

When I was about eight years old, we took a family vacation to the Rocky Mountains with friends.  I loved the whole experience and didn't want to leave.  But as with all things, the vacation had an end point, and we loaded into the cars and headed east.  I was riding in our friends' car with their daughter, and as we headed into eastern Colorado, my friend's father told us to turn around for our last glimpse of the mountains. "You might never see them again," he said.  To never see the mountains again struck me as an impossibility, and being the stubborn child I was, I refused to turn to look.  I knew in my heart, I would see them again.

And I have seen them again.  I lived in them for five years and have enjoyed many visits since that time.  But as I grow older, I do turn and look at the last blue fingernail of mountains as we head east.  I watch in the mirrors and turn in my seat, trying with my whole being to keep my eye on them.  I don't want to miss the last glimpse as the disappear below the horizon.

Mother gets that look in her eye now too.  On some days she will stare deeply into my eyes and say my name softly.  She really looks at my face as if she is trying to memorize each feature.  It is as if she is turning to look because she may never see me again.  I wonder if somewhere deep in her mind she is trying to hang on to every last bit of her memory.  She is trying to emblazon the images into her mind because at some level she knows she is dipping below a horizon and may never see the images again.  Each face, each moment is looked at intently. For Mother, every day is possibly the last day she will remember.

Turn and look, you might never see them again.