“What’s that mountain called?” they ask
As it stands stark against the sky.
Glancing toward the smaller peak,
“It’s called Bluff Mountain,” I replied.
As larger ridges arrest their gaze,
Bluff Mountain retains my own.
A precious memory captures my heart
When Daddy took me there alone.
Then I was just a little girl
Traipsing along behind my dad.
He stood there on that vacant lot
Looking bleak and a little sad.
“This is the spot where I was born;
Our homeplace stood right here.”
Nothing was there to back his claim–
It had faded away with the years.
“This is the place where we would hide,
Me and Roy could fit in there.”
He held my hand as I crawled up
To the overhang they had shared.
“Years ago, hon, we lived right here,
Back when I was just a boy.
We climbed these rocks and ran this ridge,
Just me and your Uncle Roy.”
As the memory slowly fades away,
I can’t help but shed a tear.
Back in 1916, twins were born
On that bluff you can see from here.
copyright 2000 by moleta ruth mccarter All rights reserved.
