In western Washington, we say “the mountain is out” to mean that it is visible, not covered by clouds. Which mountain depends on where you are, from Rainer in the south to Baker in the north. When you talk about it, it’s just the mountain. The mountain is out and my father is dying both of these things are equally true and equally temporary. I roll along back to him, hands steady on the wheel, eyes on the road and on the mountain, which is silhouetted against a vivid blue sky, but never for long. I didn’t know then how little time we had, that I would never get a chance to push his wheelchair over the paths we used to walk, that we would be halfway through The Hobbit for the rest of time, that he never would make it out into his greenhouse again. So much had already become normal, the hiss and sputter of the oxygen tank, the shake in his hands. So much never could. The cat bringing in earthworms, helping any way she could, the painkillers that failed just like the treatments had, the meals carried up on trays and carried down again half-eaten, all of it, going on and on, ending much too soon. We had some warning, at least, enough for a conversation we knew might be the last, for I love you and then I feel like we've already said everything there is to say to each other and my god, the gratitude in his eyes as, quietly, he agreed. It was only hours later that I stood in the grayness of very early morning, the door open behind me, stood and watched them take his body away, until the hearse turned a corner and moved out of sight, and knew that I would not forget. The mountain is not out today, mist-covered in low gray clouds that, themselves, are temporary. Elani Wales, 2021