Quitter

I don’t want to be the only one climbing the mountain. You need to have your pick axe out too. It’s practically freezing up here sometimes and I worry that one of these days you’ll carve a ledge for yourself and build a fire and a fort and a whole home. You’ll want to stay there. Halfway up. Halfway down. No more climbing.

It may be because you grew tired of the heavy backpack, or the stiff ropes callusing your hands. Or because you looked up one day and watched my boots scuffing, burying themselves in the rock, my fingers raw and red near the mountainside. You heard me whispering sweet encouragements under my breath, teeth clenched, face determined. And you pondered what to do when I looked down at you and smiled, encouraging you to join me. You perceived the panic in my eyes; their bright and wild worry that you wouldn’t keep up with me. So you didn’t.