Mountains. A Metaphor for the Invisible Woman

Sometimes my mountains retreat. Like ghosts. They melt to nothingness on hot horizons. Are burned clean away by the glare of sun. Or shrouded in mist or haze or dust so dense they blur as invisible. 

I put my flattened palm to my brow then and scan the line where heaven and earth meet, where I know my mountains stand, where, if I squint, I tell myself I must be able to see them. I must.

But they are gone. Bashful as brides, they have retreated behind some obscuring veil.  

I feel untethered then, without them, my north and south, those necessary guiding points of a compass. As if some anchor has come loose and drifted off.  Sometimes you know where you are. And sometimes you do not.

But some days when I walk, in the soft pearl of dawn when the world is cupped neat and ordered and sharpened with a chill, my mountains are razor cut against the ceiling of sky that the sun is just peeling back. As it slides in on the east and long fingers of light grope and feel their way towards the dark western edge, the top of Meru is pinked, a blush against the palest, palest blue. A kiss, I think.

Or in the evening, when the day has settled into itself and leans long and languorous as shadows are stretched thin and taller, no longer that shuffling squat of noon, I see them then, standing tall, heads thrown back, their profiles pencilled dramatically and black and bold. 

They are beautiful.

Sometimes I see my mountains and sometimes I do not.   But I need to remember, they are always there. Tall and strong and solid and sure. 

Even when they are not. 

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