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Lost Somewhere in the White Mountains, I’ve fallen behind the others. Mid-summer, a hike up a peak and down. In the valley, there’s a lakeside spot
where I take an outdoor shower, get a bite to eat. Walking on, I realize I’ve forgotten my plaid flannel robe, rolled in my red day pack. I can see
it, hanging on a peg where I stopped. Going back is a waste, the streets look alike, there are too many towns on the hiking map. I’ve fallen behind
the others, and how my sisters will laugh. I’ll never live down this mistake, it will become a family joke. Asking at a luncheonette, I find I’ve lost the red day
pack. My cell phone’s a calming shape in my pocket. The waitresses help. Their eyes are so kind, I could stay here the rest of my life. We hikers didn’t swap
our cell phone numbers, I confess with a smile. Wasn’t that dumb? But I can call my mom. They offer the use of their land line so as not to run my
batteries down. Reception, they remark, is often weak in New Hampshire - Mom’s home state. I’ve nothing to write on. They give me a cancelled
check, hand me a pen (mine’s in the pack’s zippered pouch). Holding the receiver, I recall in a flash that my mother is dead. In her last years, sometimes she
knew me, sometimes not. I can see her, tottery, deaf, blind, sitting small as a doll by a lighted a lamp. I can’t recall her number. I’m lost. I’ve
fallen behind the others. I say, Just give me a sec.
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