As a little child,

I remembered him simply

as a wrinkly old man.

Gentle, caring and very loving.

My quiet and meek grandfather

who lived in the mountains

with his family.

A mountain man.

 

That was my perception until one day,

I saw him climb a towering tree

with the ease of a young one,

Hacking away at the fruit

with firm strokes of the machete.

That had me thinking,

What a mountain man.

 

He could make the sweat inducing

journey down the mountain side

and back up again with ease

like it was nothing...

Know his way around the humid jungles

and rice terraces that looked all the same

as if they were the back of his hand...

like a mountain man.

 

This all changed last year

when suddenly he fell ill,

His bones became weaker and

he couldn´t even stand up.

A phone call between us

was the last I heard of

the mountain man.

 

He is now buried six feet under

where his beloved wife joined

him a year later.

He may be gone now,

He may not be roaming

those mountains anymore,

But that won´t stop me

seeing him up in that tree,

hacking away at the fruit,

and thinking... wow,

what a mountain man.