Personal Narrative: Miner's River

For a few summers after my daddy went to heaven, I found myself taking long walks into the woods, a far piece behind the back of my house. When I was young I’d play there every day and over time the trails grew wide. I knew those chaotic mazes as well as my own reflection in the Miner’s River. Sometimes I’d count the steps it took to reach a fork on a specific trail, having already decided which trail to take till I arrived. Flecks of sunlight would flutter through the branches, playing peekaboo before hiding again. The warmth of a summer day was like a blanket in winter and I fell in love with the way the comforting heat made me feel. It was inescapable. I felt nothing but peace during those walks. Often I’d lay my back upon the hard
ground, my legs and arms grazed by strands of wildflowers and dried grass, and close my eyes. I’d listen as flows of soft wind lifted the leaves overhead, shaking them like cymbals on a tambourine. On a good day I could fall into a deep sleep only to awaken from dreams that lingered long into the night.