Mountains in the distant future

Photo by Henrique Félix on Unsplash

There's a spot near the end of my street where the blocks slope downwards towards the west. As I make use of my government sanctioned exercise, I often find myself standing on the footpath looking out over the rooftops below the ridge-line.

In the distance, I can see where the mountains meet the sky. On some days, the blue haze that gives the range its name can be seen shimmering around them. On other days, the sun is just beginning to sink below the peaks, making it seem as if the mountains are not blue, but golden. On the less hopeful days they simply look like mountains in the distance.

I've taken to slowing my purposeful steps as I reach that spot. Taking an extra breath in, exhaling the throbbing desire to bridge the distance between my winding suburban street and the wild, ancient mountains on the horizon. They've become a symbol of desperate hope for me in this lockdown. Those mountains, so close and yet so entirely out of reach.

As I follow the footpath home I dream of a future where I'm once again allowed to drive up the highway into the mountains. I dream of the windows down and fresh mountain air. I dream of walking the trails; ancient lines trod by feet that have been here for millennia before me. I dream of the familiar smell of eucalyptus and the excitement of hearing the call of a lyrebird. I dream of feeling once again that the world dwarfs me instead of boxing me in.

Before these dreams get too big, I find myself once again standing at my front door. I step inside my four walls and wonder when I'll feel like I'm part of the world again.