I was a speck suspended on a cliff face among the peaks and clouds. Watched below by gawkers with binoculars, and above by a hawk. These people, my ilk, my shadows, would judge and criticize, but the hawk just called out -- trespasser.
Even at this altitude the heat of day warmed my face. The memory of my mother’s thoughtful words saddened me to think their echoes would soon die. I tried to adjust my grip but the pain was almost unbearable.
My adulthood was a fusion of responsibility and recklessness that made friends lovers, but relationships inevitably die.
What did my life serve? I always thought it would be good to die on a mountain. I almost laughed. I wouldn’t be on a mountain but the valley floor.
The hawk’s forlorn cries taunted me, goaded me, but still I held on, clinging until I couldn’t cling any more.