The wind echoes through the trees, and the scent of roses invokes nostalgia as I attempt to recall the last time I walked this path. The seasons have gone through many changes, but here the trees seem unchanged. I can still faintly hear the gentle trickle of the brook nearby, and I find myself recalling childhood memories. As I step forward, I can almost hear the trees’ whispers as they get lost in the wind. The white clouded sky is painted behind the branches of the trees, appearing boldly in the foreground. The world shifts, constantly evolving, yet here, time ceases to exist. Everything shifts—I realize—but among these roots only the stark remnants of trees seem to remain. The gentle flow of calm brook and the trees towering above are still untouched.

As the air rushes through my lungs, I slowly inhale, allowing the autumn breeze to surround me, echoing the breeze that used to fill my lungs as I raced around with untied shoelaces and cuts on the knees. Back then, the trees looked gigantic with webs of branches that towered over me, making me feel safe. Now it feels like they are much shorter, but that is a side effect of growing up. What once felt so far away and overwhelming now fits within my reach, while the things I once overlooked matter so much more deeply. I skim my fingers across the rough bark of the oak tree and I notice that the trunk is decorated with faded initials. Not mine, but from someone else who dared to cut in wood, a statement against the harsh passage of time. I ask myself, did they come back? Were they able to trace their fingers over the carvings and relive the memories of who they once were? 

In the far distance, a bird lets out a call, its sweet song echoing clearly through the stillness of the woods. This sound stirs a deep emotional reaction in me—a sense at first undefined but becoming increasingly so. Lying back on fallen leaves which crunch beneath me, I look up into the sky between the gaps of the branches above, watching clouds drift lazily by. The gentleness of my father’s voice, as I remember him reading to me, allowing the words to float through the air, encapsulating and halting the sense of time moving but never quite removing that which the heart selects to retain. 

I close my eyes for a moment, listening. The forest breathes around me, steady and grounding. I have spent so much of my life running towards the future and away from the past, and now it’s as though I am able to take steps forward, yet pause and breathe when I need it. Here I feel peaceful, as though the past and the future coexist perfectly like taking a deep breath of fresh air for the first time in years.

I move forward, slowly, the sound of leaves crunching beneath me, breaking the stillness of forest surroundings. The path in front of me soon curves over, lost in the gloom of the shadows where the trees grow closer together. The bend in the path reminds me of how it once appeared to create the border of a hidden land. When I was young, I dreamed of secluded wonders just beyond—a shining pond bathed in light, a body of water so clear that it appeared to reflect the sky . . . perfectly. A place where time would briefly stand still, giving me a chance to catch my breath. Now, as I round the familiar curve, I half expected the dissipation of this dream, thinking that perhaps the wonder of the unknown has faded while I was away. Yet, the sunlight still filters through the leaves in rays of gold; the stream still continues its harmonious trickle over a bed of smoothed pebbles. The rock my father placed for us is in those waters still . . . somewhere, and I feel for a moment a similar sense of peaceful wonder that I had all those years before— when had that feeling faded? 

I kneel beside the stream and observe the water tumbling over the stones, polished due to the passage of time. As a child, I had this peculiar habit of scooping water with my palms and letting it flow back into the stream after it cooled my skin, or building mini dams with my brother to redirect the flow. Presently, I try to do the same, hoping water will somehow garner my attention and remind me, as impossible as it might sound, that the past is out of reach. To the shock of no one, it flows through my fingers just like it always did. The stream neither acknowledges me nor how much time has passed, and so why should it care that I have grown or left and then came back bearing the burden of years? What I know for certain is that the stream moves forward and continues to etch its path without the slightest bit of hesitation. That constant motion without a shred of fear towards what lies behind or beyond is something I truly envy.

I look at the trees on the opposite bank, their branches gently swaying like they are having a conversation with the wind. With my fingers dipped in the water, I can now tell their leaves are whispering secrets I can almost understand. I wonder if they remember me. Perhaps all those years ago, when I was a quiet child dreaming of an unwritten future, the trees remembered me too. I used to believe that trees were alive in a deeper sense than all other living things, alive in a sense that they were capable of remembering every single person that passed under them—I hope they remember my father.

A light current of air causes the trees to shiver, and for a second, just for a second, I feel like they are responding to me. Not in manner of word, but in the way the golden leaves shake and dance while loosening their hold, floating slowly as they make their way to the forest floor. A gentle breeze swells and for a split second, I sense that they are replying. I manage to catch one of the leaves as it makes its way down to the ground. The leaf is thin and delicate with veins that look beautiful in a web of lines that can barely be traced. Its edges are my favourite part, crisp like the arrival of autumn. It is all of this which makes the leaf incredibly stunning and a little tragic. A reminder that nothing remains constant, which doesn’t make the memories any less beautiful. As I look up to the surrounding trees, I notice how one of the leaves has to be the first to let go, some leaves lasting longer than others, and some maybe falling into the ever-flowing stream, leading it to a different course. 

As I released my grip on the leaf, it began to elegantly twirl through the air and settle down amidst the others that had already fallen. I might have found myself saddened watching as the seasons strip the trees bare and how time rips the colour out of the branches until they are just skeletal limbs stretching for a grey sky. But now, I understand the elegance it contains. The trees do not dread the upcoming winter. They do not grieve the things they have lost. They let go, trusting that spring will make its return in due course. I breathe in the air, full of crispness and let my eyes close, questioning whether I too can learn to let go of the past as easily; to let my past settle down where it is not forgotten but no longer clung onto with desperation, although I do not doubt this grief will stay with me for the rest of the forever changing seasons of my life.

Now moving forward on the path once again, I am taking my sweet time with every step. With every movement, I can feel the warmth of golden rays washing over my skin, slowly guiding me into the world that was once hidden. Of course, It is different from how I had imagined it in what seems like a lifetime ago, but that is part of what makes this place so special. The tears I shed here are not all from loss or pain, but those of memory but from contentment; although my tears will not fall onto my father’s shoulder as they always have, I have the memory of that comfort to come back to, and that is a blessing in itself. The honeyed light softly awakens in my body while the whispers of rustling leaves replace every thought in my mind. I had never understood this before, but my father often said that light will always find a way out in the darkest of woods. I can feel the glimmers of hope peeking through every thought. I now completely agree, and I know he is here when I’ve made that realization, maybe not in the same sense as before,  but he is here.