treeline

Two days into our trip to Grand Lake,
my uncle said he wanted to get above the treeline.
I was still breathing hard at 8,500 feet, spending
mornings down at the dock, toes squealing at the water.
It was too cold to swim, so I read a book
on the beauty of grief and tried pretending
I was finished with all of it, heart-wound sewn and sealed
like new. But there are some things you can’t will
from cell memory: a baby’s neck,
your father’s cologne, the ridges of a basketball
dimpling your palm, the blue
chlorine of the pool you almost drowned in.
Inside my body, there was a wreck
of longing and countless places needing healing.
The climb begins where it begins.
But there is plenty of air.
There is plenty of time.