Hope

Sunrise bleeds slowly across the landscape in waves of pure gold. It halos the trees and dense underbrush, showcasing a world gone completely green. Nothing remains to say there was ever a high school here. I remember, though. I remember the parking lot that should have been where I am standing. The feeling of the steering wheel hot from the sun beneath my hands, the smell of car exhaust and pavement. Lines of yellow school buses waiting to receive the rush of active young bodies, freed from their academic prison. I remember the time I accidentally parked in a spot meant for one of those buses to wait for my son. We had a doctor’s appointment and I was picking him up a little early. Not nearly early enough, as I had to wait for every bus to leave the lot before pulling away. I never made that mistake again.

A sharp pang hits me directly in the solar plexus. I rub the spot with my hand as my gut twists. The thought of my children still rips me to shreds. Everything else fades, but the family I have lost rises to haunt me almost daily. I haven’t seen them since… well. In a long time. I am convinced they are out there, still, like me. I picture them as I last saw them, the love of my life sitting at the head of the table with mischievous eyes, probably telling a groaner of a joke. The young people at the table, responding with grudging laughs and eye rolls. Three sons and one daughter, all young adults the last time I saw them. I am thankful for the time I had with them and I picture them together, somewhere. I wonder if they ever think about me and if they ever come back here like I do. My annual trek to our old home is dangerous and time consuming, but I’m drawn like a moth to flame. I’m drawn to the possibility that, one day, by chance, I may happen across something that eases the ache of loss. I’m like a ghost, unable to let go of the past and the people I love, haunting the vestiges of a life long gone.

There are no ghosts here, however. Only gnats, mosquitoes, and the ever present background scream of cicadas. Has it been so long that the cicadas have invaded again? I look down at the back of my wrinkled hand, a tear falls and makes a track in the dirt I hadn’t even noticed. I absently wipe it on my jeans. Driven to look for home, I turn in a complete circle, trying to get my bearings. I’m not sure if the building collapsed before the trees took over, or if the forest crumbled the walls as it grew around them, but nothing remains of the high school grounds. I listen for a moment, disoriented by my memories.

It’s slow going, as the years have not been kind. Every muscle aches, bones creak and protest. I am carefully picking my way through the trees, heading towards our old neighborhood to stand where that dining room table once stood. East by southeast, about a hundred yards away, I come face to face with a boulder. I let out a surprised grunt, and reach out a hand to steady against it’s warm, rough surface. I take a moment to assure the young woman who has accompanied me this year. She is part of the tribe of nomads I joined nearly twenty years ago. They consider me a wise elder, a storyteller and keeper of histories. They are respectful, protective, and patient with my pilgrimage. This girl, I think as I wave off her concern, never saw the world before civilization collapsed. She has lived her entire life in this new reality. She has grown up in a tent city that moves whenever the weather or aggressive neighbors makes moving prudent. Her clothes are a blend of civilization’s castoffs, like my jeans and windbreaker, and the newer homespun hemp creations that remind me of something straight out of a hippie commune. Her hair is shaved close, and she wears a flowing tunic spun from hemp, with animal skins attached and used to tie back and protect. Besides what resembles a pixie cut, she looks like a child of the 1960’s, not what we of the “modern age” would have considered 2060’s fashion to be. She still seems concerned, but halts her forward motion and moves back to afford me some privacy once more.

As I turn back I notice that the boulder has been cleared. Someone came along and tore the forest back, removing underbrush and what looks to be a decently sized tree based on the stump. The moss has been removed from the surface and lumped onto the ground around the rock, peeled back like fruit to expose the gritty white granite beneath. I remember this rock. This was placed here by the school and the senior class would paint it every year. I peer at the surface, but no paint chips remain. I reach out to touch the surface, a connection to my past, to my family. What a marvel, that it has been scrubbed clean. Someone else has to be making this pilgrimage.

I slowly circle the boulder, rubbing my hand along the surface. I am no longer tall enough to see the top, so I back up a few steps to take it all in. There, atop the rock, a gleam catches my eye. Quickly, I reach out to try and grab the metal object. A cold chill races up my spine as I pull the object closer to inspect. It is a necklace, intact, with a gleaming silver heart-shaped locket attached! There’s no way. No way it can be the same one. Falling slowly to kneel, hands shaking, I struggle to open the delicate clasp. My vision tunnels as I focus on the pictures within. My own, younger, carefree, smiling face looks back at me next to the smiling face of my daughter.