There is nothing I can say to you now.

Years have passed, we live in separate worlds. You were the boyfriend of five years, the one who explained what I was seeing in the natural world.

Today, I could hear your voice along Highway 41, even before we passed our Mexican restaurant, before the elevation changed as I got closer to Yosemite--where Scrub Oaks begin to morph into Ponderosa Pines--the wild bark wanting to be touched.

As I passed Fish Camp, I remember how you said, this was the spot where the Native American Indians came to clean their fish, a true trading post of the past. Badger Ski Resort is off to the left, only five miles, but the car continues towards Yosemite Village; my mother and me are looking for something, we're not sure, maybe it's just a turn style so we can get on the main road and look for the vista points she remembers.

We pass racing creek beds, swirling with memories, and the lodge where we used to get coffee and eat our sandwiches from the cooler inside your big red truck. These are the days when we opted to kick around, versus skiing.

I realized: If this is compassion I'm feeling then, it might mean I'm finding a way to forgive you. If I forgave you (and myself) it might mean that I'd have to let you go.

As we passed Bridal Falls, I remember your hand leading me to the base of the waterfall, love still young, everywhere the taste of mist.