Maybe, I wasn’t supposed to see it.
Where I come from is quite similar to where everyone else comes from. I’m from a
small-minded town, with traditional parents, who try to control rebellious kids, who eventually
grow up, get married, become traditional parents, who settle down in the same small-minded
town, to then give birth to rebellious kids that they try to control. I’d say that it’s a cycle of
America, but I haven’t been to enough places to know for certain that this is specifically
American, or if this phenomenon is one of the world.
As of today, the furthest place that I’ve ever been to is the top of a hike path that the
town refers to as Heaven’s Peak. It’s only a hill, but in an area of plains, it feels like a small
miracle. Biblical miracle, even. It’s the closest spot you can be to Heaven without driving or
flying, hence the name. I went there when I was five-years-old. My father took me, but when I
look back at the memory, I can’t picture the view of the peak or the smell of the wind or the feel
of the dirt below my feet. All I remember is walking with my father, along the side of a quiet
highway, traveling into the endless plain.
It wasn’t until I was older that I found out Heaven’s Peak is strictly off limits to the people
of the town. No one has gone, and no one is supposed to go there. I’ve tried to bring up the trip
to my father since then, but every time I do, he tries to tell me that we’ve never been there. Even
when it’s just the two of us, he won’t relent. I’m not sure why I don’t fully believe him, seeing as
the only part of the memory I can conjure is the journey traveling there, but there’s something in
my bones that tells me I’ve been there, and I’ve seen it. When I close my eyes, and try to
concentrate on the memory, I just lay there with the red of the eyelids staring back at me. But I
know that I’ve seen it, I know. I need to have been somewhere.
No one from the town really goes anywhere. We sustain ourselves with crops and
livestock. We have a school, church, and a tiny library. There’s a bar, some restaurants, and
some stores. Pretty much anything you’d ever need, except for another place to go. There’s a
culture of stagnation, but it’s not just laziness. Everyone plays a role in town, and if one family
were to leave, the entire equilibrium of the town’s function would be lost. Every family plays a
role, so everyone must stay.
I’m not the only one who wants to leave. There are kids at school whose words betray a
longing feeling of escape or there are kids who aren’t as subtle and loudly joke about running
away. The main pushback comes from the high number of religious kids who claim that trying to
leave our town is betraying the word of the lord, because of the existence of Heaven’s Peak.
They allege that since Heaven’s Peak overlooks our town, we should think of the hill as God
overlooking us, his modern version of the Garden of Eden. I don’t really view my family’s apple
farm as pious. I also don’t think it’s a sin to want to go somewhere, regardless of how much
some of the kids at school would disagree with that.
But today, I don’t care about that. Today, I turn 18, and I’m going to Heaven’s Peak. If I
can’t fill the blankness of my memory and face the greatest sin of this area, how am I supposed
to move forward?
It’s five in the morning and I stare back at myself under the fluorescent lights of the
bathroom. I’ve already brushed my teeth, pulled on my fleece and hiking pants, and laced up my
boots. My grey eyes blink back at me. We both know it’s time.
I creak out of the house, the snoring of my brothers covering the sound of my footsteps. I
pat my body to make sure I have everything – granola bar, flashlight, water – and open the door
into the darkness of morning.
My house is on the side of the main roadway in the area, so it takes approximately 20
paces for me to start my journey. The mud shifts underneath my boots as I step, the morning
dew hydrating the ground as the mild temperature warms it. While I don’t have a map to
Heaven’s Peak, I can play the memory of my father and I walking along this road like an
endless, detailed film reel. I figure if I walk far enough in the direction of the hill, I’ll find it.
The sun peeks its head out from the horizon line, and rises steadily soon after that.
Without a cloud in the sky, the scene is painted a golden yellow. Sunbeams warm my face as I
continue my path, which feels and looks endless. Forward and forward and forward I tread, as
hour lends into hour.
My watch tells me that only three hours have passed since I began my journey, but it
feels like eight, and still the hill on the horizon line manages to be out of reach. I try to drown out
my thoughts by taking in the plain, but its beauty comes from its repetition and expansiveness.
There’s not much more to find the longer I’m out there.
When my watch hits five hours is when I start feeling fatigued, sweat collecting where
the back of my neck hits fleece. I look at the horizon, expecting to see Heaven’s Peak, when I
realize it’s gone. My heart stops me dead in my tracks. How long has the hill been missing? Was
it just now, or was it hours ago? Have I just been walking aimlessly? With panic rising, I try to
take this break to wipe the sweat off my face and I crouch down to relieve the pressure in my
legs. It takes me only a couple of seconds to abandon crouching for sitting in the muddy dirt.
Jesus Christ.
I stare up at the sky, and then back at my hands. Maybe I’m not meant to go anywhere.
Maybe I can only survive in a small town, for my lack of skill and knowledge. I stand up,
embracing the discomfort of my wet butt. As I’m turning to go back home, I see it on my right. A
slope upward. I don’t need a sign to tell me it’s Heaven’s Peak.
With trepidation, I put my muddied boots on the slope, and start walking up.
Horror. Amazement.
Maybe, I wasn’t supposed to see it.
