I wish I knew the language of mountains.

What does it mean:
the pattern of pine – just so –
on a western slope,
the quick clack-clack of stone on stone
knocked loose as I labor
up a slope of scree?
Words are written in dry washes
threading from the heights,
dry now and inches deep with sand,
but roaring thick with snowmelt
in the spring.

Some, a lucky few,
know the language of their bones.
Tunneling deep, past topsoil, roots,
extracting cores and samples
in this age when science is worth more
than gold. A more sophisticated tongue
than miners used to use,
long gone but still peeling wooden signs
lean along overgrown paths, cautions
to their ghosts.

I tread lightly on the surface
despite butterfly wing effects of loose stone tumbling
downslope from my feet.
I cannot know this place,
yet I feel at home
with these unspeaking peaks,
the quick thunderstorms and direct rays
of a much closer sun,
the brush-crashings of bears and elk,
all we creatures who prefer
this land of rock-brown, sunburnt languages,
these articulately voiceless mountains.

Written for the “Summit in sight” prompt on dVerse today. Check it out:

Poem by Annie Jadin,

On Ghomeshi, Memory and Trauma

The Belle Jar

Have you ever had a moment when you suddenly realize that your memory of an event is not actually what happened?

A few years ago I was talking to someone about a pretty life-altering event that happened when I was 13. I’m not going to describe it in detail because it’s not wholly my story to tell, but I will say that it was traumatic and was something that completely upended my life. Anyway, this person that I was talking to was also present for this event; not only that, but they were already an adult at the time and had access to information that I didn’t.

As we were talking, it became clearer and clearer that my memories were not accurate – my broader understanding of the event was correct, but large chunks of what I remembered were not. Some of my memories were distortions based on a teenager’s misunderstanding…

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