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Show I rose through the grass, the breeze became more forceful. And at the top, at the meadow's edge, I turned and could lean full into the wind. Down the coast I could see the tip of the radio tower which marks my father's grave. At night it blinks on and off, red, flashing its signal out over the sea. I took a deep breath and started up the rocky path which leads like a broken staircase to Malpais. Suddenly I was in an angular world of stone, granite walls and sudden precipices, small flowering bushes which grow down instead of up. At each landing I could see the white fluffy arrangements of sheep below, floating like clouds on the green meadow. Once I thought I could see the young man, stumbling through the grass, falling again and again to his knees, searching for the route I had taken. And when the wind was not too loud I could hear the whistled message far below, flying along the shore, over the sand, spinning around and around the island: the old man has gone to the dead country, the old man has gone to the dead country. But the higher I climbed the more fierce the wind became. I had to hug the sharp rocks to keep from falling. A mountain goat appeared on a ledge across from me, smiled and was gone. Then, finally, there were no more bushes. No more birds dipping at me in their curiosity. I had to use my hands as well as my feet to move myself along, but I was enjoying a strength I hadn't felt in years. |