Our Very Own Mountain

I remember a moment from our childhood,  when I and my sister tried to lift papa by his arms.  We might have been really young because it felt like moving a mountain...and we were happy that our dad was like a mountain.  Unshakable and towering!

Early in the morning,  before getting ready to take a fight back to town, I laid down next to him and wrapped my arms and legs around him. The flu had run him down. He was tired and barely speaking.

Our lion was unwell.

He ran his fingers through my arm, caressing them tenderly,  his very own skin... on me. He stopped at where I had burnt myself recently and circled the healing wound with his fingers. He drew a long sigh, as if he was singed too. A little later, he seemed to struggle with the weight of my legs on him.

I gently moved my legs off him. And I could feel him breathe easier.

It is just a flu,  my mind told me,  but my heart would not stop crying. I felt like all Sons and Daughters everywhere...I could see the future and I could see the slow  vanishing of light into the ever winding tunnels of time.