This Mountain

He clenched the rope, knuckles raw from scraping against the granite. He swayed inches to the right and then back to the left in a perilous embrace with the mountain. His palms burned. His fingertips had become numb long ago, minutes or hours, he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. The stiffness had set in, like something long since dead. 

He dug his toes into the rock, searching for a foothold that wasn’t there.

It wouldn’t be long now.

He thought of her.

He’d promised her he wouldn’t let go, but that was years ago, and he was beginning to think she might be hoping he would now. 

Falling would be easy.

The wind burned his eyes, drawing a soundless tear over cracked skin. 

He was thirsty. Hungry too, but the thirst was what demanded. It screamed. It tore at his throat like the claws of an eagle cinching hold of its hunted.

It won’t be long now.

Strength, he resurrected from the grave.

He would never let go. He promised.

This mountain will move.