The Forest Wants Me Back

Milkweed sticks to my shins. A thorn pierces my ankle. Blood drips. Turning to wax in the hot sun. Cockleburs cling to my cotton socks.

Poison ivy creeps onto the path.

The forest wants me back.

Two hikers and a beagle walk toward me. Shrinking into the trees, I hope they won’t notice me. I am unfit for human eyes.

“Hello!” they say as they pass.

I hold my breath until they disappear around the bend.

I am at the precipice.

Ahead, the new path continues to the creek side. To my right, hidden among a snarl of honeysuckle, the rusted trailhead is barely visible. Breaking through branches, I find the remnants. My legs are raw now, littered with scratches. I have no sympathy for twigs in my way. They are stomped, snapped, and flung as I move forward.

The echoes of children laughing from the park fade away.

Heavy rains have muddied the earth; the ground cannot hold more. The water swells into a pit, buried in the darkness.

The trail ran left. There is no left.

I slog down toward the bank and trudge along the murky stream, mud sucking at my sneakers. The forest tightens as the water rises. Finally, glacial rocks rise from the depths.

I lunge over the stepping stones. Across the stream, the earth slants uphill.

The trail welcomes me again.

Branches I barely remember encircle me, lifting me toward the peak.

At the summit, I dig for scraps.

On the cliff’s edge, the ground has crumbled away. Pines cling by a fraction of their roots, little children, grubby fingers.

They want the earth as much as I do.

I stalk the ridge as the shadows lengthen.

But it’s gone.

I sit on the edge.

It’s not my spot.

I can’t see the creek where I searched for arrowheads. Crawdads eating my fingers and toes. The bluff I once rappelled from. The secret place where I used to kiss boys. A blue jay in my hand.

I chain-smoke cigarettes. I am the crater. Another fossil for the glacial bed below.

My phone is dying.

That may have to go over the edge as well.

But I’m thirsty. Sweat mattes my hair. I stink of fishy mud and cigarette butts.

I stumble back the way I came. The ground crumbling beneath me. I catch myself with a branch. Now there is no path.

At least, there is downward.

I crash through a tangle of limbs until I find the stream again. On either side, the mud line stretches. My rocks—reclaimed by the sludge.

Shallower to the left, I plod along the shore until the way is dammed by trash. My reflection—old Pepsi bottles, tuna cans, single socks, flip-flops. A canopy of cellophane. Ancient history.

I turn around. Ahead, the stream widens. Darkness overtakes the dense forest.

I give myself to the stream. The sludge swallows my knees, dragging me downward. I am submerged. My eyes are useless against the sodden tide. I breathe mud in like a swollen fish. Finally, the stream surrenders me. I surface, gasping for air. With flailing arms, I swim toward the bank. I grasp for handfuls of mud, but I cannot regain my footing. Clutching a branch, I pull myself from the pit and crawl up on all fours.

Back through the honeysuckle and onto the forgotten trail up the bluffs.

My mud-encrusted sneakers squish against the dirt. My legs, painted with sediment, are a feast for the flies. They follow me like breadcrumbs. I swat them away. Mosquitoes are trapped in the amber of my muddy frame.

The trail ran left. There is no left.