I am not old by years but often I feel with mountains. It began before I had memory and will end so.
My son looks at me stupidly, seeing only a hollow cough.
The rot within me will conquer; I feel it sucking even now, now when I know it can never conquer, now when I know I have conquered, now when it ceases to matter. Now.
No, not wasted, that much I know, of that at least I am sure. I have been where the moon only, where beyond and into life the moonlight shines. My skin, dying, but alive there under the moon on my hands, my face throbbing under the soft lapping of moonlight. I have held the moonlight in my cupped hands.
I used to walk and climb among trees, grazing my pale skin on the deep bark of trees, my blood flowing, mixing with the sap of the trees, my arms hanging on the limbs of the trees.
Also at sunset. The sun. I remember now. Walking to sunset I laid the taut skin of my soul before the sun, washed it in the dew blood of the wounded day, lay it again before the sun, warmed it in the heavy breath of the dying sun, clasped it to me, my soul; my sun soul.
There are no others. She has always been silent.
In the mountains I could sit now, folding myself among the rocks, in the snow. I could press my face to the cold snow and push my fingers into the rocks; my face and fingers closing with the mountain, my soul buried in the mountain.
I have no fear of dying. Or living. Only of ceasing to live. But that is spared me now.
I know what it will be like.
I should tell her what it will be like. Even in daytime the stars go out and a deeper blue than the ocean or the night sky has come blistering and frothing out of the sky below me till I am lost and alone in the depth of the falling blue and roaring of coldness as it hisses and plummets away from my shores and I know it will not be this time.
Soon it will be this time.
I cannot leave her my sun and moon. She has always been silent. To me. Always.
If I give you my sun, my sun soul. If I empty my cupped hands, spilling moonlight in your lap, you will only smile at me.
My sun and moon. Mine.
What is it that you are saying with your smile? Why are you silent with me? Why do you smile at me? What right have you to my sun soul? My moonlight? Why do you leave footprints in the snow on my mountain?
In the dark blue that is coming now I will no longer need my mountain, my sun and moon.
It is I who have always been silent.