The Trail

My feet, it seemed, snapped every twig beneath them. The sleeves of my jacket caught on every branch to my sides. Behind me, I barely heard a sound. It had been like this for several minutes. As if he could feel my annoyance rising, finally, he snorted. At least he was still back there. Sometimes, I couldn’t be certain he hadn’t tired of my ineptness and left me alone with the trees. “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” he wondered; although, the question came out more like a statement. Of course, he knew I didn’t. But, just that fact was enough to make me stubbornly not admit he was right. I only wondered why I hadn’t yet learned.

“I know where I’m going, Grandfather,” I assured him, trying not to allow my voice to betray me. 

Behind me, the snort again. Did he have to rub it in? “Oh. Okay,” he responded. Without turning, I knew he'd be nodding. For a moment, he was silent. “How?” he added.

As I stiffened my pace, a branch snapped back, smacking me painfully in the eye. Attempting to blink the sting away, I kept trudging. Every snapping of the twigs below my sneakers seemed louder, more desperate now.

His hand on my shoulder brought me to a lurching halt. Roughly, he spun me around. Pointing a weathered finger at me, he narrowed his already squinty eyes. “How?” he repeated. He motioned to the ground.

I sighed. For the first time since I started following this trail, I looked around. Trees intertwined leafy fingers about us. I turned and gazed in the direction I’d been headed. It was a definite trail.

He clicked his tongue. “Why do you go this way if you cannot tell me why? You had a plan. You knew what you wanted. But still, you walk here and you don’t stop even though you know this is leading you to something else.” Again, he clicked his tongue. As I glanced in his direction, I caught him shaking his head. “What are you following? Why do you follow it when it’s not why you came out here? Is it just because it was easier than looking for what you wanted? The first thing that came along?” Throwing his hands up, he turned and began silently navigating back through the brush.

Trying to keep up, I knew he wasn’t just talking about the trail. He was talking about my whole damn life. Why did I insist on being unhappy, as if it was a medal of honor?

At age five, I hid in the closet with a flashlight, flicking it on and off, seeing pictures in my mind in the darkness–every detail. Off. On. Scraps of paper and red, nubby pencils. Sketch. On. Off. Looking, seeing, feeling–happy.

Eyes looking bruised beneath her flawless shadow and liner, Mother came home after twelve-hour shifts. No words. No smiles. And that was life. Right? That was how money paid for tv dinners and evenings at the arcade.

But then, there was Grandfather, singing to himself. My bike would clank as I dropped it on the gravel floor of his garage. He’d smile and nod, always a mystical charm exuding into the atmosphere about him. “Running traps today,” he’d announce. Never did he invite me along. Singing, he’d busy himself until I would ask. Then, I’d notice his squinty eyes sparkle.

Showing up at 16, I’d find him, as always, puttering around in the garage, as if he could sense my random arrival times. Trashed, my sneakers catching on the gravel floor, I’d stumble over to him. Still, he’d smile and nod. “Squirrels today,” he’d announce. I’d trudge along behind him, my sneakers betraying our presence. “Your feet are clumsy,” he’d state. Missing every shot I took, I’d watch him narrow his eyes. He’d shake his weathered finger at me, motion towards the commotion of fleeing animals. “Your vision is not clear,” he’d admonish.

I thought it would make him proud when I started a job as a mechanic. At five p.m., I’d rush to see him, the bald tires of my ‘89 Cutlass sliding on his muddy gravel drive. Whatever he had in his supper pot, he’d share with me, eyeing me over his fork. “Guess what happened today at work, Grandfather?” I’d take a bite and wait. He’d shake his head. “Are you happy?”--those questions that never were questions. Day after day, the strong smell of oil never seemed to leave my nostrils. The grease, a permanent stain on my hands. Tv dinners and arcades.

At 18, at two in the morning, I found him there in the garage. He sang as he finished up painting a birdhouse he’d made. “Why are you still awake, Grandfather?” I wondered. Dropping the red tipped brush in a cup of turpentine, he responded, “Why did you come?” I thought I was really excited. For weeks, I’d been planning. “Grandfather, I’m getting married,” I told him, smiling. Eyes narrowed. He nodded his head. For once, he said nothing. Why did I never listen?

Now at 23, here I was, clattering clumsily through the underbrush, tan line fading on my ring finger. As he stopped abruptly, I nearly ran into the back of him before realizing we were back at the clearing where we’d started. He turned to me, took my stained hands in his, looked up at me. I saw an insistent hope sparkling in his eyes. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Look, see, and feel.” I breathed in leafy, piney air. Pictures began to form behind my eyelids. I could hear the squirrels chattering to each other overhead, the cardinals answering each others’ song, the rustle in the exact opposite direction from where I’d been headed. “Open your eyes,” he said. “Tell me,” he invited. “Tell me why you’re here. Tell me which way you should go.” I swallowed the lump I felt rising in my throat. Studying the laugh lines creasing his weathered cheeks, I finally understood. I finally knew which trail to follow.