The first time I ever hoisted a backpack
I walked three thousand miles
away from your hospital bed and into the wilderness.
The small amount of life insurance money you left,
finally afforded me the vacation
we never got around to taking.
Through the thinning mountain air
I climb and climb,
to stand at a new height,
amazed by the clean and simple beauty
my own feet have brought me to.
A million tiny alpine flowers shimmer before me and
I collapse into their giddy vernal mattress to whisper in your ear.
Which is now, I suppose, everywhere.
I tell you about the adventure I am having and
where I hope it will take me.
Although, I know, it is really too soon to tell.
A gust of moraine wind
transports me for a moment, home to New York City.
Yellow horns blaring down a rainy Sixth Ave.
Then, once again I pick up the gift and the burden
you have laid upon my back,
and continue
climbing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julie Nicholson is longtime vegetarian who used to sell hot dogs on the streets of New York City. She has written solo performance pieces, screenplays, and poems. You may have seen her on stage at The Marsh Theater or Studio Shotwell in San Francisco, or even at Sheila Rubin’s Self-Revelatory Theater in Berkeley. Julie keeps writing and performing because she digs the journey.