Rattlesnake Ridge.

Abstract

My mom and I sat on the rock in silence, enjoying the little sunshine that had finally broken through the thick covering of gray clouds. We passed her water bottle back and forth again, and I looked over at her face, studying it for longer than a comfortable second. She had a placid look, almost like she was finally at a place where she felt comfortable. I suddenly felt an intense urge to say something to her. I felt the words bubbling up my throat; I wanted her to know that I appreciated her working so hard at ajob she hated for my education, I wanted to tell her that it was okay we didn't say everything to each other, I wanted to tell her I care. At the last minute, when I thought the words were going to spill out of my mouth, I swallowed hard and bit them back. Maybe too much time had passed for my empty words to change anything; maybe it just wasn't worth it. For a few more moments we sat and took all the scenery in, and after a while, my mother suggested we start heading back down the trail to the car. She didn't want me to have to waste my whole day out hiking when I could be doing something fun with friends. I quietly tried to protest, but I just held my tongue. I took one last look out over Rattlesnake Ridge and hoped that maybe my mom and I didn't need to talk things over. I hoped that I didn't need to say all those things for her to know them. Regardless of what I said or didn't say, I thought that our yearly reunions on Rattlesnake meant something. The annual pilgrimage I made for my mother teetering to the ledge looking over the plummeting abyss was a testament of our bond together. I know this feeble gesture isn't the same, but maybe, hopefully, it's enough.