We used to like hiking around on the old man’s land too. But I’m going to tell you right now that it was nothing compared to our mountain. The old man’s land may have been bigger but it wasn’t as diverse. My brother may disagree with me, but I’m still telling you that the old man’s land wasn’t as good as our mountain. I’ll say that and I’ll say it until the day I die.
The old man’s land did have something though that our mountain didn’t have, and that was a pond. Up on our mountain, we did have a small stream bed that we thought must have had running water at some point. I never saw the running water, but my mother assured me that we must have had a stream running down that big rock on the front of our mountain. She said she once saw the water, but I never did. I wasn’t ever quite sure what my mother was talking about when she told me that we had a stream on our mountain, because I never saw any of that water she so often spoke of. Being older now, I definitely know that in order to have a stream, you do need water.
It doesn’t matter, I suppose. The mountain is gone and I’m not going to talk about it any more. It hurts to talk about and it especially hurts to write about it like I’m doing, so I’m going to stop. I’m going to focus more on the old man’s land now, not because that doesn’t hurt too, just because it’s a different kind of hurt. A hurt that I have to tell you about. And I’m going to tell you that I don’t want to hurt anymore when I think of the old man’s land. Maybe that’s why I chose to do this.