Nicki: I know this place. I know the woods we’re entering.
I know them in spring, when white flowers bloom in clusters among yellow-green leaves. I know the woods in summer, when the foliage is lush and thick, and you have to know these woods like I do to navigate them. In spring and summer, these trees -- this woods -- means a private picnic… a time to rest from the sun, lie on the cool moss and be peaceful and alone. It's a happy place.
In the fall I've scooped leaves fallen from these trees. Penny and I have rolled down this hill. I've laughed here, in the fall.
In the fall I've scooped leaves fallen from these trees. Penny and I have rolled down this hill. I've laughed here, in the fall.
I’ve also been at this edge of the woods in winter a thousand times at least, climbing the hill I’m being made to climb right now. Every winter when I was a kid, I climbed this hill, trudging up the snowy slope, dragging my inner tube or sled or toboggan or whatever came for Christmas that year.
I’ve seen these trees so many times I know the way one tree grows at an angle, toward the right, oddly away from the sun – the little sun that remains on this bitter afternoon.
The trees I know so well are bare. Gray stalks with spidery branches. Familiar.
Focusing on the trees calms me down enough so that I can breathe. I’m scared, but not so scared to death like I was in the car, because I know this place. It has always been friendly to me.
Focusing on the trees calms me down enough so that I can breathe. I’m scared, but not so scared to death like I was in the car, because I know this place. It has always been friendly to me.
Stumbling, I land hard on the frozen ground.
Lisa grabs me and pulls me up, and her fingernails dig into my arm, but I can’t feel it because I’m too cold.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I want to know. I sound like a baby, but who cares?
“Just keep moving, bitch,” Lisa says.
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