Changes

The mountains are still the same, cold, gray, forbidding.
Standing tall against the flat blue sky, sentries, they have seen so much.
Cardboard boxes in the entryway. Big and little.
She pushes her hair back from her sweaty face. It was a hot August day when she moved here, four years ago, hopeful, naive, freshman. Her father sits in the moving truck, ready for the long drive back to her "real" home, where she grew up. She does not know how to feel; once she would have been ecstatic to get away, now she remembers the bar the night before, with her friends. Drinking like the college kids they were no longer. She sighs, picks up a box to bring to the car, and looks up.
The mountains are still the same. The mountains never change.