I’m Still Here

When I was younger, my mother would always warn me about wandering off into the woods.

She’d say, “That forest is a maze. You’re bound to get lost in it.”

Of course, as a carefree child, I never believed her… until the day I found myself trapped in a labyrinth of unmarked trees. Since that day, I keep my eyes fixated on the path, never straying to follow the beckoning call of the forest.

The cold nipped at my fingertips, attacking my senses with a hungry desire. As I try to warm my hands with my breath, I witness little puffs of fog escape from my lips. For such a cold day, the sky is remarkably clear. A comforting sight that gives hope to the idea of a warm season, but alas the wind continues to push my hair in several directions, making it hard to see the path ahead.

Walking alone on these trails has never been an easy feat, even on seemingly perfect days. The uneven ground presents one thick rock after another, each sharp and malformed, as though someone took clay, slapped it together, and left it there to become someone else's problem. Although, the least of your worries would be tripping on one of those rocks, what really gets people is the cushion of briar they would be landing on.

I am surrounded by overarching pines that always make me doubt my sense of direction. If there was no trail to follow, I firmly believe I would never find my way out of this place.

Then the trees open up, almost forming an arch that leads to a field covered in vibrant grass, and in the middle sits the cabin, formed with smoothed wood and gray brick. The cabin itself is a pleasant sight to behold as all the memories of spending summers here running through the field and rolling around in the soft grass start flooding back to me. This place always seemed to bring a warm comforting feeling, it always reminds me of her…

No, let’s not think about things like that. This is supposed to be my chance to get away, take a moment to slow down and meditate. Personally, I was never the type to take vacations like this, but James insisted that I take a break. I think he could sense the building stress inside of me. He was always good at seeing right through me like he was staring through a window looking at every flaw and raw emotion that made me. He never seemed to judge what he saw; he just observed and accepted every truth that he found. He’s truly my greatest friend and thinking of him always brings a smile to my face. Just like the one I found myself with when I reached the door.

I look into the painted glass window, the shapes forming a hawk. Its slim body is surrounded by emerald leaves. Its head turned sharply to the right, revealing an amber eye. For a moment, I feel drawn to the hawk. No matter how many times I’ve seen this same glass painting, the eye of this bird always captures my attention. Tearing my eyes away from the window, I turn the handle and open the door.

Stepping in, I’m immediately greeted by a spacious room. In the center of the back wall is a fireplace made of crimson brick and above it, mounted on the wall, was a mirror. The beautifully woven gold accents give the mirror a vintage look that I deeply appreciate.

The walls are all filled with old pictures of when I was a child. Pictures of smiling faces, linked together in tight hugs and one-armed embraces. Rosy cheeks and stomach-turning laughs are all captured in a single frame. One such picture that captured my attention tucked safely in a thin black frame was a picture of my mother. Her thick coffee-colored hair was pulled into a loose bun, with stray hairs dancing around her face. The familiar crimson lipstick contrasted against her perfect porcelain features. The memory of a white-painted Christmas Eve with scents of cinnamon and the warmth of a glowing fire came rushing to me. It was as if my senses were being filled with the aroma of delicious, glazed pineapple ham and her famous apple pie.

The childhood magic of this cabin overwhelmed me, and I could feel the warm tears falling from my eyes. I love this place, but the recent sadness that surrounds it has come flooding back. Even still, it feels therapeutic to be here.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks and sigh. My backpack falls off my shoulders and lands on the cold wooden floor with a -thump- I sniffle a little and open a nearby window to let out some of the stuffy air. Exhausted from the hike, I nestle into the doughy cushions and take a moment to breathe. I hear faint sounds of running water and the songs of little birds in the distance as if mother nature is luring me to sleep.