Trees

I was a toddler in 1956. Women wore skirts to just below their knees. My mother would take me to family gatherings. I remember trying to walk. I was unsteady and occasionally reached out to keep from falling. I saw only legs around me, topped by darkness, fringed by the hems of skirts. My hand would reach out and touch a leg to balance myself. At times, I was too far from the leg and would grab up to reach a hem. Usually I would start to fall, but an arm would come down from above the skirt line and right me until I could balance myself.

Last Tuesday, our neighbor sent a text message that a semi-truck had overturned on Highway 2, blocking both lanes. We would have to take Reiter Road home. We followed Reiter Road as it started up the hillside, not knowing if we would be turned away by snow. As we neared the top, the road was barely wide enough for two cars. Luckily, at 1 AM, no other cars were approaching us. Total darkness among the trees. As we turned a corner, the alder trees were an arm's length from me. I could only see the trunks, as the tops were fringed in darkness. The headlights shown on the white trunks. I, again, was a child among the forest of legs. The wonderment of children engulfed me as we silently wound our way through them. I felt I could reach out and touch them to right myself. I miss the women in my life. Silently there to reach down and hold me strong.