The two week trip finally amounted to this:
one long cry up to the top of Mt. Whitney.
Tears came crashing down it seemed, down,

as we made our way up higher, step by step.

Plodding in heavy boots, but lighter,
with pack removed, than I’d been for weeks,

still thick sorrow seemed to blanket me.

Armed only with a camera and snack
I followed as you cheerfully
hiked the treeless mountain. Looking back,
checking my progress, you saw my wet face.

Your concern was touching. “What’s wrong?” and

“Can I help?” but all I could do was shake

my head and continue silently to the peak.

The granite didn’t unhinge me, not really, but tears

are not easy to stop when their flow is involuntary.

Lack of oxygen might have been the culprit,

or maybe reaching a destination is the worst thing about a quest.

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