PART 97 — THE VIEW
The next morning, we walked a trail above the village.
It was steeper than the brochure suggested.
I complained.
Daniel said the brochure had been written by someone who enjoyed hills.
At the top, there was a bench.
Beyond it, mountains folded into the distance beneath a pale sky.
I sat.
For several minutes, I said nothing.
Mom’s list came back to me.
Things to do when I feel better.
I had written visiting the mountains on my own list.
Not because she had asked me to.
Because I wanted to see them.
Now I was there.
Daniel sat beside me.
He did not take out his phone immediately.
I appreciated that.
The wind moved over the hillside.
Far below, a car followed a road between fields.
“I used to think a trip would have to change me to be worth taking,” I said.
He looked at me.
“Does this one?”
“No.”
“Not exactly.”
I thought about it.
“It gives me something else to remember.”
He nodded.
“That seems worthwhile.”
I leaned back against the bench.
The view remained a view.
Beautiful.
Unconcerned with my history.
For once, I found that comforting.
PART 98 — WHAT WE BROUGHT HOME
On the way home, I bought a postcard.
A picture of the mountains in summer.
I wrote it to June.
You would have enjoyed complaining about this hill with me.
The breakfast was excellent.
I put it in the mail before we left.
At a roadside shop, Daniel bought a small jar of honey for his mother.
I bought one for Mrs. Alvarez.
Then I bought another for myself.
That still felt like a decision worth noticing.
Something pleasant.
No purpose beyond wanting it.
We reached my house just before dusk.
Daniel carried my bag to the porch.
“Thank you,” I said.
“For the bag?”
“For not making anything harder.”
He looked at me.
“I hope we can do better than that.”
I smiled.
“We did.”
We stood quietly.
Then I reached for his hand.
This time, I chose it before he did.
He held mine without pulling me closer.
I kissed him.
A small, ordinary kiss on a porch beside a repaired gutter.
When we stepped apart, he smiled.
“So the hill wasn’t entirely terrible.”
“Don’t give it credit.”
He laughed.
I watched him drive away.
Then I went inside.
The house smelled familiar.
The kitchen was exactly as I had left it.
I put the honey on the shelf.
Unpacked.
Opened the window.
I had gone somewhere.
I had come back.
Nothing had been taken from me in either direction.
PART 4-My grandmother’s savings passbook was deemed useless by my father, who threw it into her grave.
