Sir Edmund Hillary Comes Down

On the way down

I thought about silverware

I thought about flat

Unpolished silverware

Sitting neatly next to a plate

Untouched

A plate with food

Untouched

A plate in front of a person

A person, not eating

Not hungry

Me, that person

That person being me

Sitting there

Making polite conversation

With dinner guests

About the summit

About the greatest moment
Of my life

And everything

That came

After

Can I live on this high forever?

Can I stay up at the peak?

Will I forever be the man

Who tells the same story

Impressive though it may be

Until people start walking away from me at parties

Start casting eyes downward

Start asking what’s next for me

As if anything could be next

Anything

After

On my way down

I thought of how

I would be forgotten

A name in the newspapers

Then in the history books

Then no room

New explorers to fit in

New people climbing Everest every day

So why is it so special

Just because Edmund did it first?

Will my great-great-grandchildren know

That they’re connected to me?

And if they do know

Will they care?

Should I have carved my name

On my way down?

Should I have left a message?

A token?

A flag?

What proof do I have after this

That I did anything special

With my life

All I’ll have is the slipperiness

Of memory

Leading back to my point of pride

Only to disappoint

When a detail disappears

And then another

And another

Old age will rob me of the accomplishment

And when I die

They’ll muster up some compliments

That nobody bothered to tell me

When I was alive

But before that

There will be silverware

And delicate food

And kind women

Who wish to hear my thoughts on things

That have nothing to do

With mountains

Because they aren’t all that interested in mountains

But as a man who has done something

Surely I must have opinions about things

That people actually give a damn about?

But I do not

On my way down

I thought about falling

Dying on the way up

Is a tragedy

But dying on the way down

Seems...appropriate

You did what you came to do

Why bother trying

To do anything else?

A pot boils on the stove

Dessert is served

The untouched food is taken away

And a server asks

If there was anything wrong with it

I tell him there’s nothing wrong

But I’m lying

The food looked delicious

It looked beautiful

Too wonderful to consume

How could I?

How could I pick up the silverware

And devour it all

Knowing it would never be there

Again?