She climbed mountains.

Equipped, not with a cam and belay,
but with a party hat and a mile-wide grin,
she scaled the colorful mountain of birthday gifts.

She neither faltered, nor stumbled,
but rather, greedily grasped the largest and most colorful packages,
and launched brilliant paper projectiles into the air.

Finally, she planted her flag atop the mountain.
She conquered the pile and reveled in her treasure.
And then she saw the one she missed.

In the corner of the living room,
a modest newspaper-wrapped lump waited.
She apprehensively peeled away the monochrome Times.

With a weak facade of her former glee,
she lifted the contents of the package,
to reveal a gray, wool sweater.

With her rounds made,
obligations completed,
and thank-you's said,
the sweater again found itself in the corner of the living room.

A few year later but feeling many years older,
the girl reached to the corner of her closet,
and gently removed the gray, wool sweater.

She slipped it over her tear-stained blouse,
slowly drifted down the stairs,
and loaded into her family's black sedan.

When they arrived, straining to see them from her hospital bed,
her grandmother weakly curled her mouth into a smile at the gray wool sweater,
and closed her eyes, finally.

Equipped, not with a cam and belay,
but with tears and a goodbye,
she scaled a mountain of grief.

She climbed mountains.