Yesterday we wound our way up the mountain to our hidden place. The location of picnics and hiking, her feet walked that earth, her hands touched those trees.
Soon after arriving, a car pulled up with three ladies inside. Their hair peppered with gray, eyes wide and twinkling.
"Do you know the mountain well?" one asked.
"We haven't been here in fifty years! It was our last high school trip, at a place called Turtle Cove."
As we looked at the map together, searching for this space, I told them of my mom. Their faces fell and I heard a chorus of apologies and watched their eyes look sadly upon my children.
We ended up finding Turtle Cove and as the silver car with silver-haired friends drove out of sight, I couldn't help but feel a kindred connection to them.
Two parties were on the mountain that day, both in search of something, of someone. Both yearning for a piece of the past, wanting to simply step foot on the dirt that held life and love a time long gone.
I felt peace wash over me. I, looking to revisit my mom and they, looking to revisit their youth. I hope they found what they were looking for. I know I did.