The Forever Path

Air that promised warmer times ahead rippled the fabric of my raincoat as I walked through puddles and over stone. It seemed as though no one was at the park this evening, though I couldn’t see why. Didn’t people understand that the hours between dinner and sleep were the best for walking? The sun seemed to whisper only to me, the wind cradling my movements after every step. The sky was lit up with every shade of orange imaginable, colour and brightness shining through bare trees just barely starting to bud with life. 

Sometimes I stopped walking in the middle of the man-made winding path, just to take it all in, evaluating the change in angle after the slightest shift of movement, and how it altered the whole picture so much it looked like a new view entirely. I was never a painter, but I could almost imagine myself taking a brush and filling colour into the scene, saturing everything to an intense beauty that was as delicate as it was surreal. 

A wet, sloppy patter happened upon my boot, and I looked down to see a tiny green frog, spotted with little raindrops of black. It just sat there, marveling at the beauty of nature, as was I. I allowed the frog to sit there for a while, too scared to disturb him. He didn’t have to leave until he was ready. I was certainly in no rush. I make the conscious decision to treat the small frog the way I would have wanted bigger people to treat me; with some distant amusement and a lot of respect. 

Gazing down at the frog made me recall my favourite Oscar Wilde quote. “What is the heart of the bird compared to the heart of a man?” I personally held the opinion that all hearts that pumped were similar to the core. 

The frog seemed to give a deep, grateful croak before hopping off my boot and continuing into his great journey of life. I would’ve liked to be a frog in another life. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about keeping my mama healthy or making sure we stayed together. I would be in the leaves, if I were a frog, and I would be happy just to sit in my own slime. It would be a marvellous life. 

The darkening of the orange sky made me regretfully acknowledge the concept of time. Not scientifically or even existentially, just the fact that it existed, and that it was passing, and that meant that eventually I would have to go home. To my house. 

To me, the park was more of my home than my house would ever be. I enjoy the company of frogs more than I enjoy the sight of my mother's weakening face, however terrible I am to admit it. I prefer the cool breeze to my house's stale air, and I prefer to have my body away from those threatening walls that could collapse at any time. To be trapped in that house forever would be a cruel fate, and I think that perhaps my own four walls are the worst fears I have. 

It is ironic, to work so hard to be able to stay in a home that I hate. I would much rather be with the earth, but my mother needs me to stay with her. My dying mother and my dying house, tying me to the world with an unbreakable knot. I am only trapped by the things I wish to escape. 

I close my eyes and take in the sun, wishing it would burn my sorrows away. The dull heat on my skin was pleasant and comforting, but it did not heal my wounds. Comfort was no match for pain, no matter how much the pain subsided. It took me a long time to realize that there was a difference between a problem being familiar and a problem being fixed, much longer than I would care to admit.

I spread my arms like a pair of wings, trying not to think about how none of this was real. 

Reluntacly, I turned in the direction of my home and stared, knowing I would have to return though I desperately didn’t want to. One thing my dad told me before he left was that when there is a huge journey ahead, it was easier to focus on one step at a time. My father was a drunken, sad, and lonely man who fled when my mother fell seriously ill because he couldn’t bear it, but sometimes he said wise words, and I will always love him for it. I took a step, then I paused and breathed. The next step was easier, and so was the step after that, and soon I was walking. I went at a slow pace, but another thing my dad always told me was that slow and steady won the race. 

The edge of the park was marked by a picket fence, where the stone path gave way to a sidewalk, which gave way to the street. My house was directly across the street, and it sickened me that this lovely little park sat across from a space so full of dread and despair. I crossed the street without looking both ways because I didn’t care, but it was okay because there were no cars. There never seemed to be any cars, which I liked. Cars were loud, and when they passed, they disturbed my walks. 

I put my hand on the door handle and stood there, listening. I heard no TV or music inside, and I did not hear my mother crying out for me, so it appeared that all was well. I opened the door and my bones grinded at its creek, always relentlessly screeching. I swung it closed behind me, and I felt the energy leave me with the absence of fresh air and bright light. 

The inside of my house was a sadly comical juxtaposition compared to the park. The living room was the first room entered when coming into the house, making a decent first impression, not because it was well furnished and cared for, but because it did a good job at reflecting the rest of the home. A single bare lightbulb was the only light source, all the faded lavender curtains pulled to a stiff, permanent close. Floral wall paper aged with time peeled off the sides of the wall, like they themselves knew they had been there too long, and were trying to escape the wall, eager to be replaced. A dull, lumpy red sofa sat behind a coffee table with wobbly legs, both stained and worthless. A stereo sat on a table underneath a window, and a box television set was on a stand, dust gathering on the remote. 

A wise, understanding sort of panic bubbled in the depth of my soul. I welcomed the feeling, and continued up the stairs. I felt them groan under my weight, a current sensation and distant memory at the same time. I felt like I was walking two paths at once, and they both lead to nowhere. 

When I reached the top of the steps, I felt twenty years older than I did at the park. Two moments in the house was a whole lifetime in the easy grass, and I felt it calling to me again. The essence of myself was lost so quickly within the house, I felt that by the time I reached my mother's bedroom I would either be an old woman or a stranger, and it was only a few steps away. 

I remember what my father told me and took it one at a time. 

One…

Two…

Three… 

Air that promised warmer times ahead ripped the fabric of my raincoat as I walked through puddles and over stone. It seemed as though no one was at the park this evening, though I couldn’t see why. Didn’t people understand that the hours between dinner and sleep were the best for walking?