Today I Climbed a Hill
Today I climbed a hill. And I thought about you. I remembered the time we came and they were dredging the river. I remembered shouting ‘echo’ under the viaduct. I remembered how much I hated going for walks and lay on the ground at the first opportunity.
Was it the last time we were here I took that photo? I remember listening to you guiding my hands on the lens. Looking at you as you squinted back at me in the sun. Grandpa down in the valley behind you; stalking butterflies with his camera and the kind of patience he seemed to have by the bucket load.
Was that the last summer? Was it the last time you tutored me through a shot? The papers used that photo when you died. I was oddly proud that it was my capture which was chosen. Today I took a photo at the same point. Nothing more than a view and memories.
Today I climbed a hill with a baby on my back. The hillside was alive with wild flowers and butterflies too swift for my slow fingers. Today we had a picnic, swang from trees and played hide-and-seek. Today I split the seam on my trousers larking about with the children. Today my knees ached. Today it was me leading a reluctant child by the hand.
Today I climbed a hill. And I thought about you.