Her foot slipped on a glass rock, and she stumbled. Adventurous at heart, she always braced herself for these kinds of misshapes: twisted ankles, scraped knees, cut elbows. She threw out her arms, catching herself just in time. Feeling a cut etched into her right hand, she dabbed some cleanser onto it and ignored the pain. She stood up, standing on the edge of the cliff, admiring the scenery: vast mountains, dressed in hues of fall. The wind whispered softly in her ear, bringing back memories with it.

Climbing trees had always been her dream. Her thoughts wandered to the backwoods of her childhood: a tall maple tree, standing outside her driveway. She swung her small, stubby legs over onto one side of the branch and hoisted her arms above her head, but her six-year-old body was far too short. She stood up, covering the three feet between the canopy of leaves and the branch beneath her. Foreshadowing her injuries to come, her hands let go of the leaves and she fell five, ten, fifteen feet, tumbling to the ground. 

Letting out an involuntary cry of pain, she felt her body shaking with sobs. A gasp of horror, the feeling of falling, then the warm safety of her mother’s arms. 

Another gust of wind blew.

Her mother glared furiously at her teenage daughter. She cowered back, staring at the ground. Her mother’s words penetrated her head like sharp needles. A sense of shame washed over her mud-splattered boots, ripped rucksack, and the badge pinned to her shirt that proudly proclaimed: Adventure Camp Rocks! Furiously, her mother pointed toward the door. Leave if you can’t appreciate everything we’ve done for you, stop wasting our money on climbing trees!

The memory melded into the tepid autumn breeze, and she momentarily snapped back into the present, her mother’s words six years ago still ringing bitterly in her head. She felt strands of her hair tangling across her face, brown leaves twirling in circles around her, pangs of remorse faintly sagging within her chest. This was the price she needed to pay for her dream. She fumbled for the keychain on the rucksack slung over her back, staring at the small 2 by 2 picture fastened to the link: a woman with light, dirty blonde hair and piercing black eyes, with smooth olive skin. The woman was a mirror of herself, absent of imperfections.

A final flurry of wind brought her back into the past; a girl in her twenties was jogging on a dirt path, her backpack rustling against her, filled with everything she would ever need in a lifetime. An experienced hiker, a mountain climber, she allowed her talents to run wild, traveling wherever she desired, doing whatever she pleased. Heart pumping, her legs carried her higher and higher toward the top of the trail. No looking back. She could visualize her destination in her mind. She would not let anything stop her from reaching it. Her lungs burned and her eyes watered when she finally arrived, breathless and exhilarated, at the peak of her whole life.

Blinking, lost in her childhood, dazed by the brightness of the sun, she stood up straighter, her shoulders pressed against an imaginary wall, her chest filled with pride, a triumphant expression growing across her face.

If only my mom could see me now, she thought quietly to herself. 

She grasped her keychain, holding it so tightly that the cold steel link dug hard into her flesh. Her eyes watered, not from the exhaustion but from a faint sense of nostalgia. She stared, her mind somewhere miles away, at the darkening autumn sunset.