The Guestbook at Winchester Lookout

 The Guestbook at Winchester Lookout


Fresh off a breakup, I tell myself: a change of scenery

will be refreshing. One mile in, I see a man. Great!

With flowers. Perfect! The pendulum of psychedelic

daisies swung from his hand as he trudged towards

the lookout. He’d go missing in the switchbacks—



then resurface. I trailed behind in case the flowers

were for a beloved pacing at the summit, awaiting

on a proposal (or some other romantic undoing) as

the sun rolled her large round eye below the opposing

peaks. But before I got to the top, he’d already begun

his descent—hands vacant, head slanted down, no

fiancé in tow, his eyes fixed low on the rough patch

ahead, pocked with ruts and washouts. Just as the

stranger slid past, a sound startled me—something

being crushed, made smaller. I jerked to the right

and cut my arm on the sharp stubble of a huckleberry

shrub—then I remembered the bright red tissue paper

that barely clung to the bouquet, fussed in the wind

so much, it was one good gust away from coming

completely undone. Good—I thought—he carried

the paper out of the park—not a litterer—probably

not a murderer either, then. I made it to the overlook

where a detached whip of cloud stood to admire

itself in the slate gray lake below. I explored a white

clapboard structure that leaned a little from years

of standing up to the Pacific’s harsh temperament.

Inside, a well-wrecked guestbook rested on a forest

green bench. Next to it, the daisies. The book’s cover

buckled a bit, and the corners (one crushed—three

missing) exposed the lined pages within. I signed

my name and then went on to explore the others,

but I didn’t make it past the entry above mine,

which proceeded with, In loving memory. The three

names that followed, I can’t recall. But I’ll never forget

his name, the man recording his misfortune, signing

beneath the departed:



Scott (Daddy)—in brackets, which got me thinking back

to what Creeley said: Strong feeling wants a container.