The Last Journey Up the Mountain

I remember the horse
better than the day itself.

Its slow breath
rose before us
as though even it understood
the burden resting upon the wooden sled.

My grandfather traveled that mountain
one final time,
his coffin resting where sacks of corn
or winter firewood
might have lain in another season.

No carriage ever reached our holler.
The old road climbed too steeply,
so we followed behind,
one family stretched along the hillside,
each carrying sorrow
in a different way.

Someone began to sing.

"Will the circle be unbroken..."

Another voice answered.

Then every soul upon that mountain
joined the hymn,
until the ridges themselves
seemed to carry the melody
far beyond our sight.

I never forgot that sound.

Children seldom understand
the meaning of farewell.
I did not.
I only knew
that every familiar voice
had become part of something larger
than grief.

The horse never hurried.
Each careful step
brought us nearer
to the little cemetery
where generations of our people
already rested.

Years have gathered between that climb
and the man I became,
yet whenever that old hymn
finds its way into my life,
I see the sled,
the horse,
my family moving together
through the mountains,

and I remember
that love sometimes speaks
most clearly
through those who keep walking,
even while saying goodbye.