The twelfth of May was a day I will never forget. Dark clouds filled the sky, withholding the radiance of the sun. The typical spring warmth was strangely absent. Carrying one suitcase in each hand, I walked along the side of the river. I felt the urge to climb up the hill now standing before me, but as an adult, I knew that such things would have to come later.

My path eventually led me around the hill to where I could see the house. The windows appeared to be boarded up, and no smoke rose from the chimney. I could make out an unfamiliar object behind the house as I drew closer. I put my suitcases on the ground and ran to it.

A strange feeling came upon me as I stood silently before the grave of my mother and father. My dream of coming back to live here was dissolving into a fool’s idea. The words, “Why did you come back?” resounded in my head, but I held the thought back in shock. I was alone. How could this place be the same without family? Was I now destined to grow old and die alone in this grassy nowhere? “Better than in that stinking pit of a city,” I grumbled.

Not much later, I went in the house and looked around. Besides a whole lot of carpet that needed to be replaced, the house was in good shape for one that had been abandoned for years. Most of the furniture looked as though it would break if someone tried to make use of it, and there was a peculiar smell that needed to be dealt with promptly. Still, it could have been a lot worse, and for that I was thankful.

Standing in the house made me uncomfortable. I felt like a key being forced into the wrong keyhole. What was happening to me? I needed air.

The hill… of course. Surely in my childhood sanctuary, I would remember my reasons for coming back here. I took nothing with me as I walked out the door and started up the trail. The beauty of nature fought for my attention, but my many questions were more powerful. I did take time to notice the trail under me; it was once quite visible from the daily traverse of my feet, but was now faded like my memory of the place.

My heart broke at the emptiness I found at the top. The birds were singing. The wildflowers were a vibrant purple. The blades of grass rustled gently in a calm breeze… and I felt nothing.

The throne I had once sat on as a child was still there, but it was now only a rock. Despite it being too small for me, I sat down on it and overlooked the world. Had nature changed? Had a shadow overtaken the land, now holding it captive? The hill brought up no sentiment within my heart. I might as well have been somewhere in the wild I had never visited, for that was how I felt.

            Yes, I was in the wild. Alone.

            And the home I remembered was gone forever.

I barely noticed something brush against my leg. On the ground was the most battered piece of paper you could imagine. A fist-sized rock pinned one corner of it to the ground, so I removed the stone and lifted the sheet from the earth. It was shrivelled from many rains and would likely disintegrate soon.

The oil paint my father had let me use was durable, keeping the illustration very much alive. I could still remember the day I had painted it. I had used a delicate grey to create the colour needed for the ominous mountains in the background. A blue was used for the sky, and a yellow for the sun. A hint of that yellow was added to the green for the endless sea of summer-dried grass. A river came from the mountains and wrapped around the hill, which was the picture’s centerpiece. Small in comparison to the mountains, it did not boast. At the top of the hill was a small rock, and on it sat a boy.             The child in the picture was not me. This boy had nature’s beauty in his heart. This hill was his home. He would rush up here every day, eager to do nothing but sit within the vast beauty of nature. He was happy. How could I claim to be that boy anymore?

The sun burst forth from the clouds over my head. With it, some new light of understanding began to shine inside of me. Several times, I compared the painting with the world before me. Truly, the only thing that had changed over the decades was me. I had grown old and ceased to love nature. Under the gloomy haze of the city, my affections for the wildflowers, the birds and the sky had dwindled.

I longed to be a child again. Perhaps it was possible – not physically, but in my heart. Yes, there was hope.

            And whether I knew it or not, I was home again

Reilly Irvine

Publisher: Enjoy your spring break Reilly