Going Up The Mountain

The mountain sits in the middle of town. It has always been there. It will always be there. You pass by the mountain on your way to work, on your way to the store, on your way to drop the kids off at school. At the supermarket, in the frozen- foods aisle, you run into your next-door neighbour. “Have you gone up the mountain today?” you ask her.

- Trevor Shikaze

“Not today,” she says. She grins a tight grin and gives the sort of shrug people always give when they haven’t gone up the mountain. It’s the same shrug they give when you ask about their new elliptical or how the diet is going or if they ever signed up for those night classes that were going to turn their life around. You open the freezer door and take out a stack of lasagna dinners.

Your neighbour says, “Have you gone up the mountain today?”

You grin and shake your head and shrug.

“I’m really hoping to go up tomorrow,” you say.

Your neighbour opens the freezer door and pulls out a stack of frozen dinners. Hm. Spicy Thai. Does that make her more interesting than you? More zesty? You pretend to take great interest in the frozen corn, and when your neighbour leaves, you trade one of your lasagnas for a Thai dinner.

On your drive home from the supermarket, you glance up at the mountain. There it is, off to your left, where it always is. You think to yourself, It’s the mountain’s fault I never go up the mountain. If the mountain were a limited-time sort of thing, you would make time for it. You would find the time. But the mountain is always there. It is never not there. So, in terms of priorities, it always gets bumped. Anyway, maybe today’s not the day. You feel too . . . something. Too blah. Maybe when you feel less blah, you’ll go up the mountain. What’s the rush? The point of the mountain is not to rush the mountain. You remember reading that somewhere.

“Let’s watch our show tonight,” you say to your husband when you get in.

“I’ve been thinking about our show all day,” says your husband.