I’ve never been a fan of the outdoors, but you already knew that. I’ve always squirmed with fear when a bee buzzed by, scurrying away at the sight of anything with a stinger. I refuse to sit on the grass without a towel to protect my clothes from dirt, and my body of water of choice is always indoors and chlorinated. It makes sense that I swore off hiking at a young age.
I never understood the appeal of intentionally submerging myself in the elements—with no escape from the crawling insects with too many legs to count, sludge-like mud that glues itself to the bottom of my shoes to leave a brown trail for weeks, and dirt that would get caught under my fingernails no matter how hard I tried to avoid it.
I wonder how surprised you would be, to see me now approaching the peak of Mount Lagazuoi, with my frizzy hair pulled back into a tight pony and decked out in barely broken-in hiking boots. Thinking of your reaction makes me smile.
“You? Hiking?” you would say, with a skeptical grin on your face. “What happened to the Penelope I know?”
And then we’d both laugh, and I’d tell you of all my adventures in the mountains of the Dolomites, Italy. I’d show you all the embarrassing photos my new friends took of me, sweaty and out of breath from the smallest of hills. I’d share the unique moments I witnessed with other hikers along the way, all more experienced than me: the Dutch couple with the poofy white dog, the two elderly women who stopped every two minutes to take a photo together, and the little girl who waved at me from her father’s shoulders.
“You have to see the mountains yourself,” I would say to you, knowing you can’t.
I would go on about the carefully balanced cairns sprinkled across the sea of rocks, the crisp gusts of air that whipped my hair around into knots, the breathtaking view from the peak.
Can you believe that for the first time, I wasn’t annoyed that my hair was a mess from the wind?
My bangs stood straight up, and I took pictures anyway. You wouldn’t recognize me.
The Lagazuoi mountainside was littered with wildflowers. Small patches of blues, pinks, yellows, and whites contrasted with the green grass and beige rocks like splotches of acrylic paint on a wooden palette. The white marguerite daisies reminded me of you. They always have.
The white petals sprouted out from the chalky, yellow center. The emerald stems jumped up from patches of flat dirt and in between pebbles and stones. The daisies bobbed their heads with the wind, appearing in my line of view when I least expected. The perennial plant never vacates the mountainside—but the individual blossoms will wither quickly and bud again somewhere else. A symbol of a short, but beautiful, life. The bittersweet pang of a goodbye, and the promise of meeting again. I’ve learned to appreciate the bloom while it lasts.
I posed my arm right beside two blossoms, perfectly mirroring the inked petals permanently etched onto the skin of my forearm. I wanted to pluck one and bring it back to you—maybe I would hang it besides the old, dried roses I stole from your bed all those years ago—but I decided not to disturb the mountain.
“I’m no hiker,” you would say. I know you’re not. You’ve got a bad knee, from an accident long before I was alive. “I couldn’t do all that, not like you can.”
“But you did. Remember Hawaii?” I would ask, shaking my head.
You climbed to the top of the Diamond Head State Monument with Mom, around twenty years ago. I wasn’t born yet, but I’ve seen the pictures.
The day was blazing hot, the sun was beating down and burned the top of your shoulders dark pink. You wore one of your signature Harley Davidson baseball caps to hide your frizz, and Mom wore her vintage denim shorts with a daisy patch on the left back pocket and a new pair of crisp white sneakers. She complained about those shoes the entire hike; they dug into her aching arches. Do you remember that day?
The stairs went up so high, they vanished into the sky before you could see the top. Mom was terrified of those steps. They were steep and daunting. The only assistance was two metal beams which served as a rusted railing. You smiled at her, with that reassuring twinkle in your green eyes that my mother and I never failed to find comfort in. She tells me I have your eyes.
You took her hand in your own. The stairway was tight, but you managed to squeeze her in by your side, remaining next to each other until you both reached the top. When you finally made it, the two-hour hike was suddenly made worth it, or so I’m told.
“The water was gorgeous,” you would say to me.
The photograph you took proves that. The bright blue water can be seen crashing into the shore from a long distance away. Plots of green land with picnic blankets and kids playing baseball are surrounded by darker trees. The natural landscape slowly fades into a bustling, urban city. Bright green pastures shift into dreary blocks and squares of shiny grays, from left to right.
The ocean connects it all.
“I can see,” I would say. “You were able to make it to the top that time.”
“My knee killed me,” you would say. I always forget about your bad knee. It gave you a limp, and then a cane.
“But you still made it. Why not try it again, one more time?” I would ask, with a glint of hope in my eyes—your eyes.
I imagine you hiking up Mount Lagazuoi with me. I would look upwards at the steep incline made of rocks that have been worn down over the years, offering you a fearful expression that would remind you of Mom in Hawaii. You would take my hand with a gentle squeeze, just as you took hers. I recognize the reassuring twinkle in your eyes from the old photos. Side by side, we would slowly make our way to the summit. We would stop together by the pale log benches lining the pathway, resting and gazing across the Dolomites. You would share your observations and crack jokes with me about the little details you’d notice about other hikers.
“They’re going to hate washing that dog later.”
“Don’t you think they’ve taken enough pictures?”
“I carried you like that when you were little.”
We would be smiling and laughing so much, we’d hardly pay attention to the burning of our calves from the hike. Before we could realize it, we would reach the summit.
The summit of Mount Lagazuoi has a tall, wooden crucifix in memory of the lives lost there during World War I. It is displayed near the peak, one of the highest accessible points of Lagazuoi—this leads back to the early Christians, who believed the higher a place of worship, the closer one would be to the Heavens. A few wildflowers scattered across the ground nearby, with daisies and poppies that were sprinkled down from the sky above shyly peeking out from behind loose stones. The white and red blossoms mixed together on the mountain. The daisies purified the land, the poppies painted the blood that was spilled from the young men who were sent to their deaths up the same path we stand before. Solemnly gazing out at the scene, you would bow your head and say a quick prayer, as you would standing before any crucifix. With my head up, I only observe.
I slowly walked over to the journal beside the cross. I left you to have your moment by the crucifix. I’m sure you would believe we could reach Heaven from this point on the mountain. You were always more religious than me, anyways. You always believed there was an outside force at play. You often would tell me to have faith. I never did.
I opened the journal, immediately noticing the numerous signatures from countless dates and in countless languages. Pen in hand, I signed my name. And then I signed yours. I turned around to show you our signatures, which are separated. The paper, crowded with foreign letters and splotches of black and blue ink, caused our written names to reach far across the page, never quite touching one another.
But there is no one standing by the summit cross. There is nothing but a stray marguerite rooted firmly in the ground and delicately swaying in the wind. You aren’t there. You never were.
“Penelope.” Your distant voice calls me back to this limbo I’ve manifested.
“You know why.”
I’m reminded of my question. I’m embarrassed I asked. Of course I know why you can’t try hiking again. It’s not because of your knee.
I don’t like to think about it. I watched the familiar twinkle in your eyes fade over time. I remember when your frizzy hair was shaved and never grew back right. I couldn’t count how many pill bottles lined your bedside table. I saw the limp gradually worsen until you needed a cane, and then a chair, and then a bed. A bedridden cancer patient cannot hike a mountain.
You will never experience the refreshingly cold air I inhaled at the peak of Mount Lagazuoi. Instead, you were confined to your stark white prison cell at the peak of a hill in a small New York town with church bells chiming multiple times a day. You found them comforting, just like the ornate crucifix hung above your bed. I found them incessant. The only fresh air you received was allowed in through a small crack in your one window, which offered you a perfectly framed view of a stone statue of the Virgin Mary overrun with moss and emerging out of a sea of budding daisies. Even with that window, your room reeked of rubbing alcohol and hospital linen. Years later, I don’t know what, or who, your room reeks of anymore.
I’ve grown out of the clothes you last saw me in. My short, straight hair grew longer and developed the frizz you once had. I’m taller now, and I have changed. I wear the marguerite daisy in ink on my arm to honor your short, but beautiful, life. But I still haven’t found the strength to visit your new bed, not since that dark December day that you were first laid in it. If I did, you wouldn’t recognize me.
I think back to the Mount Lagazuoi summit. Staring out into the Italian landscape, I was convinced it couldn’t be real. A bee buzzed by my head, and I flinched on the wooden log I perched myself upon. The little girl and her father walk past me once again. I watch her toddle over to a patch of white marguerites, pluck one with sticky fingers and offer it up to her dad. I regret not doing the same, until I remember the two signatures I left in the summit journal, and smile. You may be gone, but your name will be read.
Penelope K. Parker is currently pursuing her BFA in writing & publishing at Emerson College in Boston, MA. Her work can be found on Memoir Mixtapes and in Emerson’s Concrete Literary Magazine. Most days, she can be found either hiking in the mountains or hunched over at her desk. She’s a native New Yorker, but spent the past summer with a travel writing group in Europe. Yes, she knows her name is an alliteration, and no, she isn’t related to Peter Parker. Find her on Instagram as @penelopekparker.