I’m sorry I never understood when you said, “I miss the mountains.” How can you miss the mountains? We have some baby mountains in Redding, silly mother. There is nothing to miss, those large piles of dirt and trees and snow and air.
But mom, I’m sorry that I didn’t understand. Because now I do. Last night I was driving home and the mountains appeared like icebergs, looming in the darkness. And I felt comforted, by these large, overprotective brothers of mine, waiting for me at my front door.
Mom, right now our mountains are dusted with a fine powdered sugar of snow. You would love it. And the air is just cold enough to feel good in your chest, but not make it hurt. If you were here we would go up to Snowbird and try to do that dang lift again. But you are not. You are far away, by the baby mountains in California.
And Mom, you know we are thinking of joining you by those baby mountains someday. But what about my big mountains? How can I leave them behind? I feel like I belong here now.
But Mom, if you ever decide to build a grand and fabulous house on that mound of dirt that you and dad own out west, I think we would come and build a medium fabulous house next to yours. And then we could sit together at night and look at the baby mountains and tell stories about the times that we lived next the famous mountains of Utah.
Then Mom, if you want, you can whisper to me the Legend of Timpanogos and I will pretend I have never heard it before. And I will be so happy when you tell me that the lovers’ spirits were united in death- and that the fair maiden forever lays at the peak of the mountain.
And mom? I understand now.
I miss you.