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The Road to Happiness

The Road to Happiness Linda Parsons Marion Appalachian Heritage, Volume 35, Number 2, Spring 2007, p. 64 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2007.0142 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/433633/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 19:02 GMT from JHU Libraries The Road to Happiness We drive east to the blue-bearded Pisgahs congregating shoulder to shoulder toward Asheville. Intractable mountains, toupeed in white, grant us passage—similar impassable years between mother and daughter. Mist burns off ridgetops like thoughts of winter: far, farther, gone. Last fall in Wales you hiked to cliffs above Swansea Bay, until near the brink you crept on all fours like the spray-tangled sheep, inched into heady wind, sure as the wing of a magpie delighting at the sheer drop. From a globe away, I watched you take shape. Banking the velvet curves past Newfound— talk of boyfriends, happiness, such slippery slopes. I too traveled that dark march of pine, hairpin turns and drop-offs, wild as the route my father drove before the interstate cut through the Cumberlands. Months apart bridged with guessing games and knock- knocks, my mother's goodbye of ice and fire, our unspeakable cargo. Now you have seen the cliff wall, though http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Linda Parsons Marion Appalachian Heritage, Volume 35, Number 2, Spring 2007, p. 64 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.2007.0142 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/433633/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 19:02 GMT from JHU Libraries The Road to Happiness We drive east to the blue-bearded Pisgahs congregating shoulder to shoulder toward Asheville. Intractable mountains, toupeed in white, grant us passage—similar impassable years between mother and daughter. Mist burns off ridgetops like thoughts of winter: far, farther, gone. Last fall in Wales you hiked to cliffs above Swansea Bay, until near the brink you crept on all fours like the spray-tangled sheep, inched into heady wind, sure as the wing of a magpie delighting at the sheer drop. From a globe away, I watched you take shape. Banking the velvet curves past Newfound— talk of boyfriends, happiness, such slippery slopes. I too traveled that dark march of pine, hairpin turns and drop-offs, wild as the route my father drove before the interstate cut through the Cumberlands. Months apart bridged with guessing games and knock- knocks, my mother's goodbye of ice and fire, our unspeakable cargo. Now you have seen the cliff wall, though

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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