Picking Up Roots

She slid into the kitchen with an easy grace; appearing much smaller than the last time he’d seen her. Whether this was due to age or the diagnosis, he couldn’t tell. She looked fragile, but when he hugged her, her old strength was there.

He felt out of place. It had been three years since he’d seen her last, and it seemed foolish to have come for a visit just now, eight months after the diagnosis; still, better late than never.

It felt strange to see her at home in the summer. He was so used to visiting on the front porch of the cottage as the wind carried the salt air to them and they caught up over glasses of wine. But then, it was strange to be home at all, as his business interests had taken him occupied most of the year on the west coast, leaving little time for any sort of travel.

She led him into the living room, warm and welcoming as ever, and sat next to him on the couch. With a gentle smile she proceeded to ask him everything. To his surprise, he told her.

He hadn’t thought he would ever reveal the unhappiness he felt, but sitting on the couch, he felt safe. He told of the difficulties in his relationships and the hardships he had faced in his business. He explained why he left and what his new plan was.

She sat and listened the entire time, the smile never leaving her face, except when she spoke to offer words of encouragement or understanding. In her quiet way, she demanded honesty, and he found he no longer knew how to lie.

He was devastated to leave and find he had not asked a single question about her. He would come back.

Anyone else watching wouldn’t have noticed at first, he was so practiced at the game. If they had followed him for a block or two, studying his movements, they might have caught on and thought he was crazy, the way he took careful steps, walking at angles while still moving forward. The police had stopped him once and asked him if he was intoxicated. He’d smiled and explained how he was playing at a child’s game.

He was no child. Those years were long since passed, and he was well into the fall of his life. His leathery face was a deep brown, the color of the leaves that dotted the ground and which he tried to avoid crunching as he walked.

It was a foolish game he’d played while walking home from school as a child, trying to make as little noise as possible. They had learned how Indians walked in silence through the woods and he was eager to practice ways to avoid being noticed.

That was years ago. He smiled at the memory as he felt the aches of oncoming winter creak through his body. The years had taken some of the spring from his step, but every now and then, when he wanted to disappear, he’d play at the game.

Summer had thought him foolish when he explained the game to her. She asked why he wouldn’t grow up. He’d told her he didn’t want to become old before his time. She’d shaken her head at him, but smiled.

She was gone now, a sad reminder, along with the snowy color of his hair, that winter was coming.

He knew the change in seasons was inevitable as was the passing of time, but he still clung to the game and the youthful joy it brought him.