Walking down the hill yesterday, turning my back on Daisy Peak, Dad’s mountain, I had to turn and look back… couldn’t keep walking away. The place where his marker sits looked small. I didn’t want to leave. I’d kissed my fingers and touched his brass plaque. I’d left a little bouquet of drought flowers and re-placed the rock stack, but it didn’t seem enough. I let the others keep walking and stood still, assuring Dad I would come back as often as I could. I assured him that I carried him with me too, that he was always with me. Who needed assurance? Who needed the reminder? In that moment I was thinking of Dad as he was at the end of his life: his body wasting, the medications compromising his mind, his future gone. I was the strong one then and yet… he assured me. Finally I was able to turn toward the trail down, but not without the desire to bend down and kiss every rock. This is his place, where his body was strong, where he was happy, and where he has become part of the rocks and crags and dirt.