I’m not certain what your last letter contained. I had an Armenian friend translate it to Yezidi, which I could not read. Also, he supposedly did not know how to translate it back to English, the only language I am able to read and speak. I’m not certain why I did any of this or why yogurt companies make the lids so very delicate. Do they not know that if dropped from even the most innocent of heights yogurt will cascade upon the blouses and blue jeans of everyone within a five foot proximity?
I lied. I read your letter before I had it translated. I’ll meet you on the 20th. Please paint your house Baker-Miller pink. Carmine red will also work. Or Cerise, in a pinch. One of those three in descending order. Best to least best. I guess.
Guessing is something I was doing in June or July of last summer. Whenever Elgin and I tried to climb a small mountain. I guessed that it would be easy. Perhaps it was for the elderly tourists, but not for us young working folk. It’s embarrassing not tragic that we never reached the top. A thunderstorm was rolling in, that’s one excuse. But it had been rolling in when we started climbing, so think about that. I saw a man wearing a shirt with “NO EXCUSES” emblazoned on the front. Not on the mountain, but I should take that message to heart. Or at least keep it in mind for occasions when I desire to appear tough, masculine, confident, and of strong character. Whatever those words mean. Please let me know if you find out.
Elgin and I found out that water and food are imperatives for hiking. Two donuts and a soda in the morning aren’t enough. Bring water next time, I said to myself. Bring a sandwich. Be intelligent. A moose, then two moose were drinking from a mountain lake. They were intelligent beings not lacking in rapturous, cold water. Those stupid mountain lakes over that monstrous cliff taunted us. They insulted us. We weren’t born in the mountains. How are we to know what a mountain climb requires, I nearly shouted at them. I didn’t, fearing the wrath of the hoary wayfarers. We could see the top, and the closer and closer and closer it was, the harder it was to walk. Feet in sand? Feet in molasses? Syrupy feet in pancakes slathered in butter? It was like one of those. Every ten feet taking a break. We were pathetic creatures.
People were descending from the summit like Moses from Mount Sinai, their faces aglow as if God had been drinking iced tea up there. We turned away from them, much like the Israelites must have turned from Moses when he was rubbing his glowing face all over them. Stop rubbing that disgusting glowing face over our sweaty, dull, not glowing bodies, Moses, they said. Bolts of lightning struck the top of the mountain. People told us to be careful. They said we’d feel tingles in our feet. Like a thousand tiny pins in the soles of your hooves, said one man. Why did he call our feet hooves? Weirdo. We never felt the pins or tingles or anything except hard, annoying ground. We were less than a few hundred feet from the peak. We turned around and walked back to the car. I needed to be home for dinner. What did you have for dinner?