My Favorite Part of the Landscape

“That is not a mountain, that is a hill,” I say to my husband.

“That is not a hill, it is a mountain!” my husband says to me.

We stand at the bottom of the mill/hountain in Avoca. A wind from the Irish Sea

is carrying away

what remains of the afternoon sunlight.

When I grew up in the desert,

every day I would look at the mountains,

I used them to orient myself when I moved

houses, apartments, or just around.

The Santa Catalinas were to the north, so I followed them to get to the grocery store.

The Santa Ritas were to the south, so I followed them to get to the park,

relying on such majesty for every day errand running.

I had cousins that visited once from Ohio when I was ten.

We were taking them hiking in the Superstition Mountains. I asked them

what the mountains in Ohio were like.

One cousin replied, “We do not have any mountains where we live.”

I thought he was joking.

Now somehow I am in Ohio.

I drive all over the state for work,

I am enthralled by the endless green pastures,

everything grows so easily.

But isn’t it easier to lose your way?

Instead of a pile of rocks for guidance, I have my rock,

my husband, to help guide me.

We join hands

and start on the road up to our cabin,

whether it is on a hill,

or a mountain,

we climb together.