"A fiery sun rose over the mountain. All I could think of was that I didn't care.
There was no place I needed to be. Nothing that was waiting for me. No one that knew I was alive in that intimate way of knowing that stakes a claim on a place in time from which you can never escape.
I was glad.
It was, perhaps, pretentious to call them mountains but that's what people called them. I suppose they thought that mountains had a certain cachet that conjured memories of lofty moments and monumental undertakings. Maybe the need for heros is endemic or maybe it is only another mythical creature cut out of the fabric of life and pasted on a cereal box, like the sports stars that the sports addicts wanted to mimic as they chewed their morning crunch. What ever the reason, I called them mountains, covered with mist and bird shit and all the other the other detritus of wear and weather that sifted down relentlessly upon the living like a James Joyce vision of the dead.
They were mountains
And that was that.
In the bright rain that Sunday I watched them walk up the steps to the church. Many of them were old and bent backed, as if their bodies longed to fall to their knees and crawl, like the peasants in Mexican churches, up the bloody aisles toward the hanging body on the crucifix.
Below the blood soaked symbol of their God, a living symbol wrapped in ornemental robes smiled symbolically . Behind the smile hungry eyes flitted, bat quick from tableaux to tableaux -each face and every body, each station along the track to the final image on the cross, fluttered over the shiny faces of little boys who, in bewildered, somber silence, stared.