How Far Is Down, Father?

by Emma Lou Thayne

Today I went to that mountain,

the one we climbed every Fourth of July.

It’s not that steep.

But then I didn’t run.

Was I five the first time?

Your khakis sandpapering my wrist

below our hands, your Bunyan boots

cutting the sharp white-rock path to crescents,

you pacing me groundless to the ridge.

Our seats, the red cliffs sanded into hollows,

Sego lilies spidering the clefts, purple sky and

stomach-grabbing fear that rattlers might undo

themselves along the cracks. Milk-warm oranges.

Smashed tuna sandwiches. Melted Hersheys. A stone

thrown out to see how far down was.

One year you let me wait high on the Devil’s Slide,

you jarring down ahead, shoulders heaving

in your shirt, soles showing. You turned and waved,

expecting me.

I started down like you, easy, bouncy.

But down was farther than I thought

and steeper. Frantic legs

jack hammering. Windmill arms. Jammed face.

Slope sucking me. Eyes aching open,

then—crushed closed. I sprawled in dumb surrender.

But you surrounded me. Sudden, fierce,

your chest against my fall, safe

among white rocks and pines.

Today I came down slow, feeling for footholds,

clutching at my woman’s urge to run

here to your grave.