Settled into bed, she asks for a story. “I want the story of Daddy and the mountain.”
This stops me for a minute. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying. “I don’t know that one, Em.”
“Yes you do. Daddy went to the big mountain,” she begins and she lies back expectantly.
I swallow hard. “Oh, that one,” I say and I pick up as best I can. “Daddy went to the big mountain.”
“And what’s the big mountain called?” she asks, though I know that she already knows the answer.
“It’s called Denali.” The name is loose and pliable on my tongue. It rolls like pebbles in my mouth.