Reflections by the lake
The pine needles attach themselves to the soles of my feet, the pitch a gluey conduit, assuring their permanence on my appendage. Even after I break off the long, dry, strands, the small, fibrous ends will remain for an indeterminant span, implying a lack of cleanliness, despite numerous efforts to the contrary. The path, carpeted with the orangey-brown needles, is steep, a tangle of roots forming footholds likes nature’s steps. If one isn’t careful, it is easy to lose footing. A heel slipping on the root’s smooth surface is enough to cause a painful tumble onto one’s bottom, the sharp protuberances beneath knocking the breath from the lungs and resulting in a spewing of loathsome language. I’ve travelled this path since I could walk, first guided by the slim, bony hand of my grandmother, then under my own power, my sturdy little legs tromping up and down all day long, down for a swim, up for lunch, down for a paddle, up for dinner, down for the sunset. The smell of the trees, the Adirondack earth and the iron-rich lake are singular to this parcel of land, as is the sound of the screen door latching. It can be heard from afar and occasionally whispers in my dreams. There were several years of living away, of growing up, of building lives, when the path gained a reprieve from my attentions, but even after so many years of infrequency, my feet find their way automatically, the first time, the last time, day, night, and all the trips in between. I follow in the footsteps of my grandfather, grandmother, and my mother, breathing in their presence that is everywhere here though they are physically gone. I place my feet where they placed theirs, perhaps shedding some of my cells into the ground where they shed theirs, bonding together in the earth, reunited, shoring up the path, guiding the feet of my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to come, breathing the magic of this place into their soles and souls, as it has done for generations.