Almost There

The calendar told her what she knew was real, but she could really not believe: one year. Not almost. Not about. Exactly. One year, 365 lonely … grieving … sometimes desperate days. Too quick and too slow.

On this anniversary, Emily stood at the trailhead of Perspective Mountain with her car door still open, keys warm in her hand, wondering why grief had such a precise sense of time when everything else had dissolved into blur. A year since his breath had stopped. A year since the house learned the sound of only one set of footsteps. A year without.

She had not come here to be brave. She had come because the walls of her house, her life, her grief had gotten too close together.

The sign at the trailhead was weathered and simple: Perspective Overlook — 3.2 miles. No commentary, no encouragement, no indication that she was on the right path. Yet something inside moved and she wanted to go.

She breathed in deeply, closed her eyes, and uttered a wordless prayer. As she exhaled in the cool morning, the vapors rose. She started walking.

The first stretch was kind enough — packed dirt, birdsong, sunlight filtering through pine needles. She could almost pretend this was just a hike. But grief doesn’t like pretending. It tightened as the trail ascended. Her breath shortened, as the quiet grew louder. Grief seems to speak in echoes when all is still and quiet around us.

“You should’ve seen this view,” she muttered, surprising herself with the sound of his voice in her own. “You would’ve loved it.” She spoke it to him; she spoke it to break the silence. It was her attempt to replace the reverberating echoes.

Her legs burned. Her chest felt heavier than the incline justified. She stopped once, then twice, pressing her palms to her thighs, counting breaths the way the nurse had taught her in a room that smelled like antiseptic and endings. A flashback interrupted and for a moment she was there, not here. It was an all-too-familiar trip.

She blinked and forced the next several steps.

Halfway up, the trail narrowed. Rocks replaced dirt. Sweat traced the line of her spine. That’s when she saw them — a couple coming down, trekking poles clicking lightly against stone.

They looked like they belonged; like they belonged in the scene; like they belong in nature; like they belonged together. They seemed inseparable.

She stepped aside to let them pass, then heard herself speak before she could stop it.

“Excuse me,” she said. “How much farther to the top?”

The man smiled quickly, kindly. “Hi, I am Matt, and this is Christine. The overlook isn’t too much farther.”

The words landed lightly, like they were meant to.

But she didn’t look at him. She looked at the woman beside him. Christine’s eyes told a different story. Her eyes were honest and would not pretend, not even for a stranger in need.

Emily tilted her head slightly. “Your face doesn’t match his enthusiasm.”

Christine laughed once, her eyes dashing away and then returning to Emily. “No,” she said. “It’s one of the toughest climbs up here.”

Something inside Emily cracked open.

Her throat tightened. The mountain blurred. She suddenly couldn’t remember why she thought she could do this — why she’d believed that altitude could fix the absence.

“I don’t think I can,” she mumbled and then realized she said that out loud. But it was too late, her thoughts were producing emotions and those emotions bled tears. It was the kind of crying that doesn’t ask permission.

Christine’s expression changed instantly. She stepped closer. “Hey. Are you okay?”

The widow shook her head. “No. I —” She wiped her face, embarrassed at first, then quickly she flew past caring. “It’s the anniversary. One year since my … ” something lodged in her thoughts and in her throat. There was an awkward silence the hikers wanted to break, for her sake, but they had no idea how. Emily swallowed hard and courageously continued: “It’s been an entire year since my husband died. We were together 32 years. I just … wanted … I felt, no, I needed to see something bigger than my grief.” She gestured vaguely at her chest. “Because it feels like I haven’t seen anything except what I don’t have and can’t get back.”

A gentle breeze seemed to bring a freshness, a breath of life.

Christine didn’t hesitate. She closed the distance and wrapped her arms around Emily — not tight, not loose, but oh-so-present. Emily breathed in the smell of sunscreen and sweat and pine and let herself lean for a moment.

When Christine pulled back, she kept her hands on the Emily’s shoulders, steady and warm.

“Well,” she said gently, looking her straight in the eyes, “if you’ve been through all that … then you’re almost there. You’re almost there.” Now her eyes revealed care and empathy, there was not a single indication of pity. This surprised Emily; she was used to the pity of people who cared, but for almost the entire year she had craved someone who would respond with earnest empathy.

Christine’s phrase, you’re almost there, echoed in Emily’s head. For a moment she thought she heard the words in her heart. Those three simple words didn’t deny the climb. They honored it.

Matt reached over with a napkin left over from the snack on the overlook and gently handed it to Emily. Emily reached for it as if it were a gift — and that is what the entire encounter was, it was a gift.

No one could think of any other words that could be expressed. The two women embraced once more.

Then Matt asked if Emily would like them to accompany her. Everything inside of Emily wanted to say yes, everything except for her heart. Her heart knew a different answer. “You are so kind, but I must do this on my own. Your kindness has been amazing.”

They parted with a nod, a shared silence that felt like respect. The couple continued down. Emily turned back to the trail.

It didn’t get easier.

Her legs trembled. Her lungs argued. More than once she thought about turning back. But now each step felt … named. Counted. Earned. Maybe even closer to something.

When she reached the overlook, the world opened in a way photographs never capture. Valleys layered into blue and green like waves frozen in time. The horizon stretched without end and without explanation. Wind pressed gently against her face, as if calling for her gently.

She cried.

She didn’t feel healed. She didn’t feel finished. But she felt placed — small, yes, but not erased. She breathed in deeply, and as she held her breath she felt like she was holding something more than just her grief.

She stayed until her breathing matched the sky.

She was not sure why she felt compelled to leave, but it felt right. “Kevin, I love you and I miss you. I will always wish you were here, that you were near.” She soaked up the view and spun around to take in the entire 360-degree panorama from Perspective Overlook one more time.

She turned to make the 3.2-mile trek back down. The steps down seemed not just less dark, but tremendously lighter.

That hike became her ritual.

Every year, on that exact day, she returned to Perspective Mountain. Some years she climbs quickly. Some years she stops often. Once, she almost turned back — but remembered a stranger’s hands on her shoulders and a truth she’d needed to hear.

The climb never changed.

She did.

And every time she reached the overlook, she remembered: Grief doesn’t shrink — but life gets bigger around it.