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Starting Over
by James Krehbiel They stood side by side in our back yard; their arms intertwined, and gazed off towards the pine forest that sat well back from our property. These were the first two I saw, and I paused at the window, wondering who they were, why they were here and what they wanted. The blue- haired woman with the rounded shoulders that hunched inwards pointed off into the distance; her companion stared in the same direction, her white, wispy hair hardly moving in the breeze. The two of them stood close to one another in silence, one supported by her cane that sank slowly into the wet ground and other bent, resting against her friend. I called my mother from the other room to come see. “Look mom.” I pointed towards the two of them standing in our back yard. “Look at what? I don’t see anything.” “Don’t you see them? ... right there .... see?” Mom glanced at me with an expression of bewilderment, her brow slightly furrowed. “There’s no one there.” She chuckled, glanced out the window again, shook her head and wandered off to another room. I wasn’t seeing things. They were real, as real as the yard, the house, the gardens, and as real as the forest behind our property. They were there. I saw their shadows stretched across our lawn as the sun came to rest on the horizon. As if they were one, they stopped and turned to me. “Can I help you?” I asked. “Are you looking for something?” The one with the cane, thought for a moment, glanced to her friend and then in my direction. “No, I think we’re fine ... thank you.” She gazed off towards the forest. “Do you mind if I ...” My mother’s voice cut into my question. She called from the kitchen window, her tone tinged with confusion, wanting to know what I was doing standing all alone in the back yard. I had no explanation and reluctantly ambled back towards the house. Frustrated, I paused, feeling drawn to these two women and looked back. I watched as one of them pointed in the direction of the forest, the other leaned in for a few words and then, as if coaxed, they shuffled arm in arm away from my home. That was sixty years ago and I am now entrenched in my golden years, although I have no idea why or who termed them as such as there is nothing I’ve discovered that is golden about them. I’ve decided it’s finally time to tell this story of the people who came to our home that summer. I’ve lived thirteen years longer than I should have and knew that I would. It seemed as though everyone who came to our home that summer sensed they would as well, and as that summer of my youth passed, more and more people came. Most everyone appeared to be old, although I now realize my perception of age at only thirteen was most likely skewed. In hindsight, I’d say most were in their seventies or eighties. They were frail and some were obviously ill or maimed. Many arrived bent over hobbling with the aid of a cane or a walker. Others looked emaciated, pale, and appeared to be clinging to what little life they had left. I’m not sure if they had been coming in previous years. Either I simply never noticed or it indeed started that summer when I turned thirteen. No one else remarked about the people that streamed in day after day that summer. Their presence seemed solely for my eyes. The first to came to our door, did so on a humid, July afternoon. I was alone when the doorbell rang; my parents were out running an errand and due back shortly. I’d been told never to answer the door to strangers but this time, I knew not to ignore whoever waited on our front porch. I opened the door and before me stood an old man, at least he looked quite old to me. He stood slightly stooped over leaning on his cane, his tattered tweed jacket, stained white undershirt and jeans threadbare. He wore a pair of sandals, ragged from too many years of use. His face, so deeply cracked, looked as if shards of glass had been slowly dragged across his skin, creating ruts that criss- crossed signaling years of insight and pain. His clouded eyes looked up. Small beads of perspiration trickled down from a nonexistent hairline. “Am I in the right place?” he asked. The man’s left canine tooth glistened gold among others that were yellowed from age. “The right place?” I responded. “Yes, am I the first?” “The first? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” The man’s muddy eyes looked through mine, off to an unknown location. He waited, then turned and hobbled one step at a time down to our front lawn, supporting himself on his cane. He stood there for a moment, glanced from side to side and then slowly turned and shuffled around to the side of our house. He lingered in our back yard and with excited anticipation, I headed out the back door. My parent’s voices interrupted the sound of the door closing behind me. They had arrived home. I felt suddenly stuck, unable to move. My feet rooted in place. Disheartened, I watched the man trudge off towards the forest, alone. He was the first of the visitors to ring our doorbell. There may have been others before him that didn’t ring our bell and as if they knew where they were headed, made their way off towards the forest. Early on, I never noticed anyone coming back. It seemed as though the forest had scooped them all up and held them confined among the richness of generous pine limbs. I longed to follow the people that came to our home that summer; discover what lured them. But with each attempt denied, I started to wonder if their journey was never meant to be mine. The first person I saw return from the forest, showed up on a sweltering August afternoon, the air so thick with moisture, you could grab hold of it, feel it, squeeze it and see the drops tumble to the ground. The man’s black hair was buzzed short, his solid torso erect. I remember he stood on one leg in our front yard, the other leg gone and his empty pant leg folded up and pinned just beneath his pelvis. He stood there looking around, crutches under both arms. He wore Army fatigues that were meant to hide him but now, there seemed little to hide from. I could only watch, my parents nearby, as he too wandered off towards the forest. It wasn’t until later that evening that I saw him return. The full moon cradled by the tops of noble trees; the evening breeze cloaked in the scent of pine. I was sitting on our back porch when I saw the man coming back towards our house. I recognized him not by how I remembered him, but by his clothes. He walked unaided, in the same Army fatigues, only now, they hung on him. His sleeves dangled down, long past his hands; his trousers folded up as not to trip over them. He resembled a child that looked as if he had played dress up in his father’s fatigues. He walked quickly, kicking the stray stone on his way and eventually disappeared around the corner of our house. I’m not sure if they all returned from the forest. Some may have remained there; others might have lost their way. And I have often wondered as well, if the few that were younger, had shared my experience. I only saw a handful of them return, but with each, there were no more canes or walkers. They all moved quicker, with more life than when they arrived. The stream of people coming to our house continued throughout that summer but as autumn approached there were fewer and fewer. By early September, no one came. I’d nearly forgotten about them until one day I came home from school and found an elderly woman standing in our front yard. She seemed lost and stood propped up by her walker. She looked frail and so very thin. Her sheer skin hung loosely from her arms, her veins just barely below the surface and her jowls stretched. She stood there in a housecoat of sorts, and wore an untamed white wig positioned slightly askew with one side covering one of her ears and the other side higher up, stuck to the side of her head. “Can I help you?” The woman looked up at me through horn- rimmed glasses, her eyes opaque like so many of the others. “Is this where I’m supposed to be?” she asked. “I’m not sure.” “It feels like I should be here.” She leaned on her walker, looking around through overly thick lenses, her milky eyes magnified. “Perhaps if you went around to the back of the house...” I started to ask if she needed my help, if I might join her on her journey, but she turned and shuffled off towards our back yard, the straps on her shoes had slipped down from her heels. She disappeared around the corner of our house. I watched out the back window as she paused in our back yard for a moment. She looked off towards the forest, and eventually plodded on. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. The house empty and no one due home for hours, I dropped my book bag by the kitchen door, threw on a pair of sneakers and bolted outside. Off in the distance, I could see the woman’s wig growing smaller. It seemed painstakingly slow. She moved cautiously, so slowly, that I had to sit and wait every few minutes before I could get up and move on. She paused on the other side of the field, just about to enter the forest. I watched as she disappeared under the canopy of pine branches. The sun- scorched brown grass crackled under my steps. An errant hawk hovered overhead looking for its next meal, the air so still that tiny pieces of milkweed were held suspended and dispersed with my presence. I entered an undiscovered world. The towering pines gave the impression of being upside down; the longest boughs high above, with each of them reaching inwards, as though they were yearning to touch one another. I felt no ground beneath my feet, only a lush and dense blanket of delicate ferns that rustled when walking by. The fading light broke through the boughs in slivers so thin, it appeared as though individual strands of flaxen hair gently floated down around me. I heard only silence as I made my way along an almost indiscernible path. And in the calmness and serenity of my surroundings, everything appeared so beautifully vivid. The vision of fertile deep green ferns, the graceful overhanging boughs and even the rough bark of the trees touched all my senses. I paused and felt the needles of pine boughs high above me gently brush my hair. The tips of ferns delicately tickled my palms and the dark brown, deeply- etched bark pressed its imprint into my shoulders. Every nerve felt alive. The sweet fragrance of pine enveloped me. Up ahead, I saw the woman. She knelt down and leaned over the edge of a pond, a pond that radiated an iridescent blue-green hue and possessed the clarity of a thin sheet of translucent ice, the surface still. Around the perimeter of the pond were downy, moss- covered vines that cascaded down and reached towards the woman, holding her and the pond separate from the rest of the forest. Along the edge of the pond was a graveyard of canes, walkers and crutches, some leaning against tree trunks, others were lying where their owners had abandoned them. A wheelchair poked up through a cluster of outstretched ferns. As I looked on, the woman lowered her face to the water’s edge, cupped her frail vein- covered hands, and drank. She drank for only a few seconds, then pushed herself back from the edge of the pond and gently lowered herself, one of her arms out over the pond, her fingertips just below its surface. I knelt, hidden behind a gnarled tree trunk; the woman appeared to be asleep. Had I not been watching so closely, I never would have seen. Her chest rose ever so slightly at first but with each consecutive breath, her chest rose higher and higher and as her breath deepened, her frailty receded, her sagging jowls faded and her body slowly transformed. I leaned into the tree trunk mesmerized by what I witnessed; the shortness of my own breath and rapid pulse held me in that moment. She opened her eyes, sat up by the water’s edge, and moved her hands over her face, the impression of fingers getting acquainted. She removed her glasses and gently slid her wig off, setting it on the ground beside her. Blond curls fell around her face, framing smooth, unblemished skin. She stood and glanced to the right and the left, as if making sure this moment had been only for her and then she walked towards me. I shifted for more cover and as she neared, I held my breath; my clammy hands braced against the trunk of the tree, my pulse quickened. I remained still, hidden and protected as she walked past. I noticed a slice of youth in eyes as clear as the pond and heard it in the cadence of her gait. Within moments, she was gone. I stood and walked over to the water’s edge. I knelt down, looked into the water and saw myself looking up into my eyes. I saw no fear, no anxiety and felt only a sense of tranquility. I dipped my hand into the water. The cool liquid sifted through my fingers, rejoined the surface of the pond and rippled away. I brought my hand to my face. There was no scent. Enticed by the inquisitiveness of youth, and as if there were no choice, I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked the last few drops of liquid from them. I will never forget the taste, tinged of sweetness and the texture of silk. The last thing I remember from that moment evoked a feeling of warmth, as though someone or something had wrapped itself around me, embraced me. I felt one last breath escape, a sigh of calm swathed me. Everything went dark. My eyes opened but struggled to see. I felt submerged, encased in warm liquid unable to move. And then it started, slowly at first until I found myself being jostled around. I felt pushed, prodded and just before I was able to see, it felt violent. And then, I went from total darkness to unbearable light. I felt a sting and lastly, arms ... arms that held me. |
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