The path went up, straight up, the side of the mountain.
I followed best I could, watching his steps in placement,
and I was counting.
I took three, to his one.
Nothing really to hold on to,
maybe a root if I was lucky, I wasn't having fun.
His feet were as big as snow shoes!
They held to every crack.
I was at the stage of commitment.
There was no turning back.
I kept my eye on them,
those sagging white socks and old brown soles.
I couldn't see the rest of him,
nor could I hear a shallow breath.
Just the crunch of stones rubbing and falling downward,
liken to me, a certain death.
One wrong step and sure I'd be
in a heap at the bottom, in a holler
of someone else's property.
Switch back and forth,
I think he could do this blind.
With a grunt and a twist, a squint to the sun,
I got further and further behind.
He must have shifted, down to a lower gear
for he was gone from sight.
Out of wind, I couldn't give up.
I had to stay and fight.
I reached the ridge and there he stood,
just another walkabout; a Cheshire smile on his face.
He pointed at my shoes," Son, best tie that shoe lace."
He turned and shook his head,
it just didn't make sense to me.
Here I am at thirty-five and him at eighty-three.
Thinking of you, Papaw Holly Burdette
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