Forked Crossings

Forked Crossings

     The house where I was born was a fine country house dating back to the early 1800’s.  The house was furnished with heavy, oak furniture and antiques that were passed down through the generations.  Dad’s prized possessions were his rifles.  They were hung above the fireplace in the living room which was the place of many family gatherings.  My favorite room, the kitchen, was to the right of the living room.  I can still remember the wonderful smells of fresh baked bread, pies, cakes and roasts.  These were some of my fondest memories.

     The land on which the house laid was rich with memories as well.  We had 20 acres of land and those 20 acres were used for either animals, farming or me.  The woods and the tiny brook were a playground that a jungle gym or sandbox could never replace.  My imagination ran wild.  I took many a sea voyage in that tiny brook and many an exotic safari in those woods.  The farm was my home and no matter where I lived after that it will always be home.

     The one place I will never forget, but will always try, is the crossroads.  The crossroads were where two roads crossed down the street from my house and there was always an old lady standing there selling berries just before the sun went down.  Her complexion was sallow and the few grey wispy strands of hair on her head blew in the breeze that always seemed to be around her.  Her rotting teeth would peek through her thin lips as she grimaced at everyone who passed by.  She never really said anything.  She would just sit on her dilapidated stool and stare into a void.  One time I remember was when I was coming home from school and the old lady spoke to me.

     “Aye, my little laddie,” she croaked in somewhat of a Scottish accent, “how’s your day?”

     I never heard her speak and it startled me to unexpectedly hear such a sound on what was an unusually quiet day.  She attempted to smile yet all she could manage was a grin.

     “Fine thank you ma’am,” I uttered quite softly.  I tried to keep walking, but she continued to talk.

     “How’s your folks?”

     “Very good, thank you.”

     “And your mother?”

     “She’s taken ill, but she’s getting stronger every day.  The doctor said she’s over the worst part.”

     “Do you love her lad?”

     “Who ma’am?”

     “Your mother.”

     “Of course I do.”

     “Do you believe that she loves you?”

     “Of course she does.  I’m her son.”

     “Come here son,” the old lady said as she nodded toward a small patch of grass beside her.

     I don’t know why, but I felt drawn to her.  She scared me, but also filled me with a deep curiosity.  I walked slowly over to where she was sitting and sat down on the patch of grass she gestured toward.

     “Nothing is ever as it seems,” she began.  “I knew a young boy one time who came from a wonderful family.  He loved his parents and they effortlessly returned his love.  They brought him up well and gave him everything except a purpose.  As the child grew, so did his mind.  He began to realize that life did not revolve around his parents and slowly he discovered the world outside of his home.  The more he discovered, the more his parents didn’t matter.  Then one day he realized that his parents’ love was only an image of what he really wanted from them.  They didn’t really love him.  They only raised him as they felt he should be raised in their eyes.  They tried to make up for their own errors through him.  What I’m trying to say son, is that parents never really love a child.  It’s all just a cruel dream, believe me.”

     The old lady followed her story with a knowing nod.  She packed up her berries, stood and started to torpidly walk the dirt path that led away from my house.  I didn’t understand at the time exactly where she was going with her speech, but the words stuck in my head as I too headed for home.

     Years went by and I tried to avoid the crossroads the best that I could.  I never lingered there except to wait for a passing car.  I loved my parents, yet the words of the old woman constantly rang in my head reminding me that maybe my parents didn’t return my love.  That wretched old lady stayed in my head for years.  Her words made me question my parents’ love.  When I grew up and got married, I started to question my wife’s love and eventually when I had children of my own I questioned the love I thought I had for them.  I started to go mad looking into their faces every day.  How could they look at me so lovingly?  Didn’t they know that their love was untrue?  They quietly mocked me with their stares.  But I fooled them.  I knew the truth.  They didn’t love me any more than I loved them.  My family soon became menacing.  I felt they knew something I didn’t.  Paranoia clutched at my throat and slowly began to squeeze until I found myself without the energy to fight back.  They had become my enemies.  I sat idly and alone in a dark corner day after day biting my fingernails down until my fingers bled.  I had no hope to cling to.  My clothes became shredded swatches of fabric, needlessly mangle by a constant twisting and rending by something within me.  I screamed in terror at the shadows slinking across the walls.  They smoothly and silently eased towards me and then they grew suddenly to massive, grotesque, beasts reaching for my throat.  Until one night, in the middle of winter, I sat in my corner under one single light.  Sanity washed over me as if I were a grain of sand on an empty beach being bathed by the tide.  With time comes understanding.  I am the grain of sand and the world is my tide.  In a vast beach I am one in a million.  How can anyone just see me?  A smile spread over my face.  I can love.  I’m no different than anyone else.  Someone was fooled, but it wasn’t’ those who I had fought and ran from.  It was me.  I took what was said to me a long time ago and listened, but never bothered to listen to how I really felt.  I allowed myself to be led astray.  When I close my eyes I can see my boyhood home.  If I try real hard, I can still smell the kitchen.  Love did live in that house and I chose to move.  Although it was years ago, I can still see the crossroads vividly.  Except this time I don’t see the old lady.  I see an image of an aged figure bellowing in anger and pawing the dirt in rage.  It’s eyes are ablaze in fury as an ear piercing shriek escapes from it’s rotting teeth and thin lips.  The closer I look the better I can see the tempest tearing at the gray hair.  The elderly figure fades in the dust and all that’s left is a  cloven print embedded in the dirt and my true understanding, apart and yet together, at the crossroads.

Author's Note

This is another story that I wrote when I was in high school. I don't have an exact date, but I would guess around 1986.