Great Heights

I recall talking with a friend of mine

as we stood on a boat inches away from a glacial river

about being afraid of heights.

“You know what I feel when I get too near the edge?”

he asked, leaning out to tighten a nut on the outside

of the cabin, one hand clutching a wrench, the other

gripping the rail. “I feel like I want to jump.”

I considered that idea as I wondered what I would do

if he lost his grip. A life ring and a length of line

hung behind the ladder to the bridge.

“Not me, man,” I shuddered to imagine approaching the rim

of a high cliff, or a building taller than two stories.

“I can barely stand watching someone else up high.”

I thought about how twitchy I get at scenes in movies

when a character is flirting with certain disaster

near a precipice.

My friend finished the tightening,

stood and handed me the wrench. “Never

think twice about it unless I’m there,” he smiled.

That was it. In the blink of an eye I decided

I never wanted to climb mountains

or anything else with him.