I brought Dad’s photograph with me.
The climb is more difficult than I remember. My nine-year old legs didn’t tire as easily as my skinny, 38-year old legs do. I wish I could blame loss of youthful energy.
‘If this was the last thing you saw, wouldn’t you die a happy bunny?’
When the food shortage got worse, I suggested we come back. There’s neither snow nor fog anymore, only relentless heat. View’s still worth it, though.
But Dad didn’t make it, he was too malnourished. He died two days ago, holding the photograph in his hand.
So will I.