Forgotten Times

The forest behind my childhood home was the first to teach me how to dance. Every day the reaching, twisting branches of each towering tree would beckon me towards them. My joyous little legs would carry me out the backdoor, across the sweeping lawn, and into the dusk meadow beneath the canopy. After much twirling, running, and occasional leaping, I would land dazed and out-of-breath in the forest’s heart. It was here that I learned how to dance.

After a still and quiet moment, the forest would burst to life to welcome me back for another day’s adventure. The wooded nymphs would peel off their host trunks while the pixies would shoot through the air to play with the branches and the falling leaves. They were all very shy and completely invisible to normal people, but I was their best friend. When the birds came and found their seats, that’s when I knew the lessons were starting. Birds of bright sky, fiery stars, and golden sunshine trilled, whistled, and sung in the dappled green glade as the nymphs spun me in circles and showed me their waltz of springtime. When we finally got dizzy, we’d collapse onto the flowing grass and laugh until my stomach hurt. Then they would tell me about the forest, how the squirrels were ridiculously silly, and why the grumpy black bear left to find a new home. I drank and lived every word until late at night, I heard my mother ring her dinner bell because Daddy was finally home. The nymphs would melt back into their trees and wave me goodbye as the pixies sped after me as I ran back home. Even when I went to bed, I could still hear the trees whispering about all the exciting things we’d do tomorrow.

As I got older, I wasn’t allowed to go see my friends every day. In fact, when I started my home lessons, I rarely had the chance to slip away to the forest’s secret place. My mother would make an excellent hawk. Instead of learning from the forest, I learned from my mother how to dance properly, how to sing sweetly, and how to speak softly. When summertime came, I raced to see the nymphs so I could show them everything I learned. As they disconnected themselves from their bark, they laughed and cried all at once because they had missed me and were glad I had finally returned. As the pixies lazily wafted through the air, I began to teach my friends what my mother had shown me. At first they thought it was funny. Then they were confused. They didn’t appreciate this new “right” way and made sure to tell me how silly I was for believing it. After that, our friendship was cracked and fragile.

When summertime ended, there was a fight and I told my best friends that I hated them. My mother said she had never seen the forest lose its leaves so fast and remarked how bitter the wind was when it was only mid-September. I didn’t care.

I finished learning the correct way to dance and left my home and forest behind to continue studying the correct way to sing. At the towering palace of the smog-stained city, I learned far more than I ever could have learned from that small, uncomfortable glade. I met Isaac, devoted my life to him, and celebrated the life of our little girl, Keithia. I never once thought about my childhood friends of the forest.

When my father died, my mother needed me to come home. The long, winding road carried us far away from the city and into the eastern wilderness where my old home sat situated in a sprawling meadow bordered by a vast woodland. My woodland. What was once my woodland.

A week after the funeral, Isaac returned home to work, leaving me to fulfill our promise to Keithia to explore the forest. The once well-worn and well-traveled pathway was overgrown with prickly vines and low-lying leaves that brushed against our ankles. I couldn’t recall ever hearing the constant, ominous creaking of the trees’ branches and the biting wind that tore through our light sweaters. I was ready to turn back, but Keithia didn’t seem to mind, so we pressed forward. After letting her decide the direction to take, we ended up in a small glade surrounded by soaring oaks. It seemed familiar in an eerie shiver-down-my-spine way, but I hadn’t been there in years and I couldn’t remember it. The air was completely still here, the forest silent. Keithia wandered over to one of the oaks and laid her hand on the rough bark.

“Mommy,” she whispered. “This forest feels sad.”

After assuring her that forest don’t feel emotions like we do, I let her wander around until the light began to dim. As we headed back towards the house, I couldn’t remember why I started crying or what caused so many tears to run down my face and fall onto the hard, cold ground. Later, when bedtime finally settled onto the house, Keithia curled up with her favorite pink fairy toy and fell asleep while mumbling something about dancing. While sleep came so easily for Keithia, I couldn’t even lie still for twenty seconds without rolling over or punching my pillow a few times. I kept telling myself that it was because Isaac wasn’t there, but there was something heavier about the bird-patterned, wallpapered room. I couldn’t imagine how I ever slept here as a child. Then, it hit me. I had forgotten that I could never fall asleep here without having the window open. I used to count the stars, make my wishes, and listen as the rustling trees lulled me to sleep. I threw open the window into an oppressively dense summer night and found my favorite constellations. I wished for Keithia’s continued health and her bright future as the beautiful little firecracker that she was. Finally, I curled into my blankets for a sleepless night.

The trees were silent.