Together

His palm is pressed firmly against mine, his fingers holding our hands together. His callouses draw my attention, stiff from work. Our bodies are exhausted from effort and the heat is disseminating into the ground and air around us. Soaked in sweat, I vacillate into shivering. The dog next to me is shifting her weight to find a more comfortable position. My mind is separate from my body, and much as I know I need to bring both things together, I can’t seem to unify my thoughts and actions. A mental inventory of my physical state requires more focus than I have. As we’re in no position to talk, I won’t have to extend any false assurances. I let the effort slide.

His hand squeezes mine and he moves our hands to rest on his chest. It is a purposeful attempt to make me focus on my breathing. Closing my eyes, I can feel a gentle rise and fall as he slowly inhales and exhales. We are responsible for everything dying below us on this mountain. One remains audibly conscious, extollingne pain and sending my heart jarring across the airwaves. An effort to focus on the chirping birds or crawling insects is a flawed attempt at distraction. I send wishes that the wind might blow to create noise, knowing a possibility exists that it will blow the sounds of death closer.

Carefully, he unfolds our hands, rubbing my palm between his fingers and thumb. My mind can’t zero in. Time is stretching, moving too slowly. I feel the dog’s head resting on top of my hip. I know if I touch her, it will cause her tail to wag, so I refrain. My tears are hidden behind sunglasses. They run across my face, leaving trails in the grime, but I can’t wipe them away. My throat is dry and constricted so tightly that my ears ache. It will be a few more minutes before we can continue on and I hope the tears subside.

His fingers move from my hand to my wrist, pressing into the artery to feel my pulse. The air is acrid; the smells of dust and vegetation are overpowered. Neither hungry nor nauseated, both are blessings. I imagine the sun moving quickly towards the horizon so that we may benefit from greater shade. I memorize the rock outcropping leaning over me, the painful stones jabbing into my back, the sand that is always sliding from beneath our boots.

I touch my dog, my hand slowly tracing the bones of her jaw, feeling the gentle curve of her throat as it drops towards her chest. My fingers rest on the heart shaped locket tucked into the folds of her collar, a reminder of the ski slopes and hiking trails and life we lived before this. The locket, itself, a charm from a bracelet from a time that no longer exists. The photo inside is a remnant of experiences that belonged to me well before this life that now belongs to me.

It occurs to me that if I squeeze my hand tightly against his, I will be extending an assurance that I am fine. I want him to continue holding my hand so that I’m anchored somehow. I want the physical reassurance that I am not alone, that I will not float away from this mountainside in a land far from home. When we move again, the hand in mine will be replaced by my rifle, a tool with which I am uncomfortable. I withhold the communication that will cause him to withdraw his hand, now pretending.