At the top of the world, the air is thin and it’s hard to breathe. I’m panting. It doesn’t help, but I can’t stop. Each breath in is short on oxygen. My lungs feel empty; they stay empty. Hunched over, the only thing to see is gravel and rock; the only other things to see are hard-crusted snow and darkness.“Hey,” The porter, the only other person up here, gets my attention.I’m stunned. It’s been days since I could smoke – not from lack of want, but from lack of air.
Tanzania is the furthest from home I’ve ever been. I look down from the top of that dark cold mountain top. As the night starts to lift – faint, early morning light, just a shade away from darkness creeping in – I see him. I see his tired, exhausted rhythm: Step. Stop. Pant. Later, when I’m sitting at home – the mountaintop over a decade in the past – and listening to a record, the vinyl spinsby Crosby, Stills & Nash. My father gave me this record. He built the wood-paneled speakers.
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