Hilltop (From Maine Poems)

The dab of fog on the lake

looked like a chilly ghost

floating just above dawn.

I sipped the morning air,

consciously aware

I had not done this

in a long while.

The hill was impossible.

I did not even attempt

to jog it.  I just walked,

warming my legs up

in the crisp autumn light.

The trailhead was as it

always was, a signboard,

a road, and blue marks

leading me up the mountain.

I knew this was a mistake

when I came up here

after the baby died, when

you were still hidden

in your eggshell of grief,

painting our stainless steel life

a drabber shade of grey.  

I had little pity for that,

though I had plenty of grief

myself and tried so hard 

to share it with you.  

Eventually, you moved

back to your parents' home

and then started therapy there.

But that was later.

Right now, I was heading up the trail,

my lungs beginning to burn,

my mind gasping for reality,

my legs gasping in pain.

Grief, like dawn, broke through

and followed me up the trail,

pushed me as if I were a baby

taking my first steps in an uneven world. 

I raced grief, all 1.5 miles

up the mountain,

and when I got to the top,

I passed out.  

I dreamed our first date,

walking gently through the park, 

holding hands, sharing a kiss

and two secrets,

one from me, 

one from you.

I awoke to a full sun, 

a burn already developing

on my face, where wrinkles

formed around my eyes

from sleepless nights 

watching the empty crib

fade slowly into memory.

I still loved you, though

it was hard to articulate that.

I think we both found it difficult

to believe there was love

in a world where life

becomes a heart valve

developing wrong.

Coming back down the mountain,

I was struck with a cold wind,

and realized winter would soon

find its way here, maybe even today.

I knew this was a mistake

coming up here when the baby died,

but sometimes one must go

to the top of the world

to ask important questions.   

I would head back to New York the next day, 

take the long bus ride home,

and sit next to your bed. 

I would tell you the story

about how I fought grief

on top of a mountain,

how grief knocked me out

and I dreamed of you.

I would ask if you remembered my secret.

Of course,

you would say from between the pillows,

But not right now.  Not now.