And found too many. Never look for what

You truly want. It comes too easily,

And then you never value it enough—

Until it’s gone—gone like these empty hills

And all the years I spent ignoring them.

There was a boy who lived here years ago—

Named David—a clever, handsome boy

Who thought he was a poet. That was back

When I still dreamed of writing. We were both

So full of dreams. He was a student here—

In those rare moments when he chose to study—

But climbing was the only thing he cared for.

It’s strange how clearly I remember him.

He lived here off and on almost two years—

In the same room that you are moving into.

You’ll like the room. David always did.

Once during a vacation he went off

With friends to climb El Capitan. They took

A girl with them. But it’s no easy thing

To climb three thousand feet of granite,

And halfway up, she froze, balanced on a ledge.

They nearly killed themselves to get her down.

At one point David had to wedge himself

Into a crevice, tie down to a rock,

And lower her by rope to another ledge.

When it was over, they were furious.

They drove her back, and he

Surprised me, coming here instead of home.

His clothes were torn, his hands and face cut up.

I went upstairs for bandages, but he

Wanted to shower first. When he called me in,

I watched him standing in the steamy bathroom—

His naked body shining from the water—

Carefully drying himself with a towel.

Then suddenly he threw it down and showed me

Where the ropes had cut into his skin.

It looked as if he had been branded,

Wounds deep enough to hide your fingers in.

I felt like holding him but couldn’t bear it.

I helped him into bed and spent the night

Sitting in this room, too upset to sleep.

And on the morning after he drove home.

He graduated just a few months later,

And then went off to Europe where he wrote me

Mainly about beer halls and mountain trips.

I wrote that they would be the death of him.

That spring his mother phoned me when he fell.

I wonder if you know how strange it feels

When someone so much younger than you dies?

And, if I tell you something, will you not

Repeat it? It is something I don’t understand.

The night he died I had a dream. I dreamt

That suddenly the room was filled with light,

Not blinding but the soft whiteness that you see

When heavy snow is falling in the morning,

And I awoke to see him standing here,

Waiting in the doorway, his arms outstretched.

“I’ve come back to you,” he said. “Look at me.

Let me show you what I’ve done for you.”

And only then I saw his skin was bruised,