The comforting presence of trees grounds me. 
On one of the trails with a waterfall, I sit on an 
ancient rock and think fondly of you, father, 
surrounded by what you loved—clean air, 
the trickling sound of a gentle creek, 
a verdant forest.

My journey is about finding you rather 
than leaving. Joining all the old things—
timelessness, rocks over a billion years old, 
and trees that could be three hundred years. 
You’d be eighty-three today. I think I understand
for the first time why our people call the dead 
our ancestors. Like the mountains, the uplifting 
of the earth’s tectonic plates, we raise 
them up each time we remember them.