The Woods (Coming of Age)

I have lived in only one house during my life. It sits nestled up against the road comfortably, smiling at the cars that drive slowly by. The red bricks, the white of the garage door, the well-trimmed tree in a happy little garden - the house suits this neighborhood and the neighborhood the house. It's not new, far from it in fact, but I love it.

And I love the feel of the grass beneath my bare feet in the summer and the exhilaration of sledding down the driveway in the winter. I love it when my dad sets up a sprinkler and I can dance in it with my brothers. I love it when my dog prances about awkwardly in snow much too deep for him. I love the house, I love the yard, and I love the woods behind the house.

There will never be any buildings behind my house; the city says so. That's where the water runs when it rains and where the ground gets soggy under your feet. If you tried to build a house, tried to cover the mud with concrete and cut down the trees that thrive there, you'd fail. So the city won't let you try. This strip of trees and knee high grass will always be there and the creek will always flow slowly and with a quiet gurgling sound.

When I was young my brothers and I would put on our rainboots, grab plastic sand shovels and our one yellow butterfly net before stomping through the grass, around the rusted metal lawnmower, past the tree stump and over the rotting log and heading to the creek. We'd dig. We'd splash. We'd climb trees and throw sticks, run as fast as we could before falling over, and we'd laugh. I love the woods.

And so it makes sense that when I forget that I love my house, that I love my yard, and I even forget if I love my family or myself, I go out to the creek. I love the woods. I haven't forgotten that.

I'm sitting on a log, staring into a little swirling eddy at the edge of the water. The creek looks different. Maybe it's because it's winter and I never really played in the woods in the winter. Maybe it's because it's been so many years since I've been back here. I don't know. But the creek looks smaller and the trees older and more crooked. I notice that when I look back I can see my house through the barren branches.

I can see the kitchen sink window. If my mother were doing dishes right now she could look out and see me, but I doubt she'd notice even if she did look. She has no reason to think I might be out here, has no idea why I might be out here. I hardly know. I think I'm here to remember.

With a small stick, I start to write in the snow by my feet. The snow keeps falling into itself and obscuring my words. Eventually it reads: "Why do I hate myself?" It strikes me as profound for a moment; I didn't realize I hated myself. I turn it around in my mind again. I decide that it's not profound. But I still might hate myself.

Looking up, I pause. The air is cold and thin and I can see my breath, but for just a second I can feel the wet, hot air of summer. I am reminded of another time and young boy. A boy who would dig, splash, climb trees and throw sticks. Who would run as fast as he could before falling over. And would laugh.

The creek is still quietly gurgling when I leave. The trees are still strong and mighty, ready for a nimble child to come and climb into their protective branches. The ground is soggy and my footprints reveal a layer of mud beneath the snow.

I'm not ready to laugh again, but I can smile, so I do. I don't think I hate myself. But that really doesn't matter. I love the woods.

And that I know for sure.