today's trees seemed too large for hugs
I marvel that the enormity of the “Big Field” surprises me. I envisioned more of a tangled meadow. I envisioned tall brush, with the ever-present possibility of a moose or a bear emerging from the briers. This is a wide-open mowed field, with exactly the right amount of sparse trees to accentuate the largeness of the open space.
The warmth from the sun and the chilly wind neutralize each other, so I take off my outer shell and zip it in the daypack. Halfway across the field, another wave of wonderment hits me; the loudest sound is that of my arms brushing against my jacket. The grass is cropped and worn, even sandy in some places, so I can walk without making a noise. There is no traffic, no cicada buzz, no sounds but some faint bird chirps and my own movement. It is late afternoon, pre-dusk, the birds haven’t started to sing. I startle a single grasshopper. I don’t know why the sudden warmth of enjoyment hits, but it does, and I think it’s the noise, and the field. It’s one of those fields you want to run out and find the exact center of, as far away from everything as you can be, and feel the air. Just the air.
After the Big Field, I enter the "Big Woods." It’s a nature preserve, and I think it has another name, but on my map it’s called the Big Woods. My jacket is back on. I have been walking through the old growth trees- well, they might be old growth, probably not, but they are large - and I see the family ahead of me.
I think about them because the dad has a backpack for carrying his toddler that looks identical to the backpack my parents had. It has a metal frame and doesn’t look particularly streamlined, but the weight is still transferred to his hips and the child looks comfortable. So, possibly an old model, owned by this very young family. They have another child, probably six or seven years old, that is keeping up the pace well. He and an older female are both wearing taupe, outdoorsy jackets, and she had straight blond hair, falling on her shoulders, and a messenger bag. From her gait, she could be a college student but I suspect she is older, a mom.
I stop to take a picture and they move ahead, in a child-friendly pace. I eventually realize I’m going to have to pass them. This happens awkwardly: The child’s attention is off-trail, and the mom turns because of this and sees me in her peripheral, says something to her husband, who turns and moves aside, stops. “No, you’re fine,” I say, smiling, and speed up to quickly pass them. My first eye contact is with the woman. Her face is mature, but she still looks so youthful. Almost beautiful, but with a few un-beautiful features. This makes me very happy, and I don’t know why. We both smile at each other, and the passing is no longer awkward. She is standing to the right, and I turn to the left to the husband. I’m not sure if I want to make conversation or just smile. I want to say something to them, about their youth, their small family, out for a hike, their aura of happiness, but I know I won’t come up with something that quickly. I’m just a passer on the trail, a lone female. And suddenly I see myself in their eyes, and I wonder if they wonder about me like I wonder about them. Jeans, sneakers, multiple layers of Northface jackets, and a small daypack. Winter headband to keep my ears warm.
I barely catch the man’s eye, but it’s long enough to know he receives my friendly intentions, and he shifts, ever so slightly, so the child on his back sees me. She is blond, and very small, and without even having enough time to react, she reacts and says “Hi.” The note is high, and clear, and it lasts longer than a normal “hi,” and it hangs in the air. Pure childhood. I’m so startled I can barely react. There is a pause; the family is surprised too, somehow, and the split second passes (how many neurons fired, just in that instant?). I say “Hi” in warmest, happiest, most amused tone I have, but my momentum, though slowed, has carried me past them. They are laughing, and I am laughing, and now I am several yards beyond them and about to turn away. I want to tell them thank you, I want to tell them they have a beautiful little girl in the best old-school backpack that was ever made. I want to tell them that they are a wonderful family and that they should save that moment forever. Instead, I give them my gratitude with all of the gratitude I can put into my laughing voice, and my step, and I’m already turned and moving on. The whole encounter took less than five seconds. I’m hiking ahead, and wondering if they wonder about me, too. I’m overwhelmed with... something. Loss. I can cry freely, because they won’t catch up and see. I can cry in the middle of these woods, and no one will ever know.
The warmth from the sun and the chilly wind neutralize each other, so I take off my outer shell and zip it in the daypack. Halfway across the field, another wave of wonderment hits me; the loudest sound is that of my arms brushing against my jacket. The grass is cropped and worn, even sandy in some places, so I can walk without making a noise. There is no traffic, no cicada buzz, no sounds but some faint bird chirps and my own movement. It is late afternoon, pre-dusk, the birds haven’t started to sing. I startle a single grasshopper. I don’t know why the sudden warmth of enjoyment hits, but it does, and I think it’s the noise, and the field. It’s one of those fields you want to run out and find the exact center of, as far away from everything as you can be, and feel the air. Just the air.
After the Big Field, I enter the "Big Woods." It’s a nature preserve, and I think it has another name, but on my map it’s called the Big Woods. My jacket is back on. I have been walking through the old growth trees- well, they might be old growth, probably not, but they are large - and I see the family ahead of me.
I think about them because the dad has a backpack for carrying his toddler that looks identical to the backpack my parents had. It has a metal frame and doesn’t look particularly streamlined, but the weight is still transferred to his hips and the child looks comfortable. So, possibly an old model, owned by this very young family. They have another child, probably six or seven years old, that is keeping up the pace well. He and an older female are both wearing taupe, outdoorsy jackets, and she had straight blond hair, falling on her shoulders, and a messenger bag. From her gait, she could be a college student but I suspect she is older, a mom.
I stop to take a picture and they move ahead, in a child-friendly pace. I eventually realize I’m going to have to pass them. This happens awkwardly: The child’s attention is off-trail, and the mom turns because of this and sees me in her peripheral, says something to her husband, who turns and moves aside, stops. “No, you’re fine,” I say, smiling, and speed up to quickly pass them. My first eye contact is with the woman. Her face is mature, but she still looks so youthful. Almost beautiful, but with a few un-beautiful features. This makes me very happy, and I don’t know why. We both smile at each other, and the passing is no longer awkward. She is standing to the right, and I turn to the left to the husband. I’m not sure if I want to make conversation or just smile. I want to say something to them, about their youth, their small family, out for a hike, their aura of happiness, but I know I won’t come up with something that quickly. I’m just a passer on the trail, a lone female. And suddenly I see myself in their eyes, and I wonder if they wonder about me like I wonder about them. Jeans, sneakers, multiple layers of Northface jackets, and a small daypack. Winter headband to keep my ears warm.
I barely catch the man’s eye, but it’s long enough to know he receives my friendly intentions, and he shifts, ever so slightly, so the child on his back sees me. She is blond, and very small, and without even having enough time to react, she reacts and says “Hi.” The note is high, and clear, and it lasts longer than a normal “hi,” and it hangs in the air. Pure childhood. I’m so startled I can barely react. There is a pause; the family is surprised too, somehow, and the split second passes (how many neurons fired, just in that instant?). I say “Hi” in warmest, happiest, most amused tone I have, but my momentum, though slowed, has carried me past them. They are laughing, and I am laughing, and now I am several yards beyond them and about to turn away. I want to tell them thank you, I want to tell them they have a beautiful little girl in the best old-school backpack that was ever made. I want to tell them that they are a wonderful family and that they should save that moment forever. Instead, I give them my gratitude with all of the gratitude I can put into my laughing voice, and my step, and I’m already turned and moving on. The whole encounter took less than five seconds. I’m hiking ahead, and wondering if they wonder about me, too. I’m overwhelmed with... something. Loss. I can cry freely, because they won’t catch up and see. I can cry in the middle of these woods, and no one will ever know.