Prologue to Pleasant Memories

Behind the building where I grew up was a small wooded area with a creek. Beside that wooded area was a field with a small apple orchard and walkway to a cul-de-sac. On the east side of the creek was a path I knew well. I walked that path, ran it, and rode my bicycle along it. I used to close my eyes at night and run that path until I got to its end, an area called Camilla Park. I burned this path into my memory. The path was my salvation from the turbulent world I lived in. I now share it and the memories with you.
Enjoy.

Pleasant Memories
by Michael Plante

There’s a creek that runs through my mind. It resembles a place I knew as a child. It starts out small, with twists and turns that lead me to where I need to be. The creek runs through a forest with a path. The path is like the creek, it too twists and turns, has its peaks and valleys, with roots that can trip you if you’re not looking. Most of the trees are poplars and maples that hide the path until fall. That’s when everything is exposed. But first, an extraordinary thing transpires; the leaves change their colors. A brilliant array of yellows, orange and reds develop. The landscape’s canopy humbles me. To see such beauty is like looking into the eyes of the Creator himself.

When the leaves have disappeared the branches are exposed. The grey days of autumn threaten rain and a cold chill that bites my spirit. Sometimes I despise these grey days, other times I welcome them. With the path exposed I walk in a sombre mood, seeking absolution for a troublesome heart; and a weighted mind. I am mindful of my steps on days like these, watching as I place one foot in front of the other. The tree branches are black against the grey sky. There’s a sense of strength and vulnerability. The trunks have sustained their growth as the thin young branches above seek the light of day and the dreams of stars in the darkness. Together they work in unison: the old trunk supports the branches as the branches feed the trunk the aspirations of youth. In the grey days they sing out to me as I move through the forest.

There’s a spot where I rest at times. The creek takes two sharp bends. At the first bend there’s a bed of stones that have been pushed up from the creek bed. All the stones are grey and oval with a smooth surface. Each stone is a past thought; a question that was never answered or a thought that was lost. This is where they end up. Each stone resting on the edge of the one before it. I sit upon these thoughts next to the creek, watching the tranquil water pass. This is where the creek is deepest, the water so dark I cannot see the bottom. I pass time picking up stones; feeling the smooth surface in the palm of my hand. I clasp the stone and start to hum and sway back and forth with my eyes shut. Do I bring life to the stone, or does the stone bring life to me?  A question yet to be answered. I toss the stone into the creek and watch as it sinks below the waterline. It disappears into the depths; and I am relieved of thought. A smile forms on my face, then a chuckle escapes my mouth. I look to the sky above where the Creator is watching. I thank him and send out energy containing love and appreciation, hoping others in the universe can feel its presence. I am electrically charged and ready to continue my journey.

The scent of winter arrives before the snow falls. The cool crisp breeze moves through the woods as the grey sky darkens, and the dwindling light vanishes beyond the horizon, nightfall arrives. Snowflakes gently fall dancing upon the air until they land. A wondrous transition stills my spirit; as a snowflake touches my tongue the child within me awakens; I become a part of this wonderous winter scenery. The snow covers the branches of the trees, the path, the terrain and the creek. In the darkness everything goes to sleep except an owl that keeps watch over the creek. She is a guide and protector within my mind. Her brown streaked feathers perfectly camouflages her as she sits on her branch. I ask myself, is she curious about my presence, or concerned why I would come back? These winter thoughts and question never receive an answer. An echoing thought rings in my head, do I bring life to the stone, or does the stone bring life to me? In slumber, I hear her words calling to the darkness; Who cooks for you, who cooks for you-all?  Silence is her answer.

II

Springtime at the creek can be delicate at times, treacherous at others. As the warmer temperatures arrive new life springs forward. Hope erupts from seeds left behind that have taken root, pushing their way towards the light. Delicate life fighting to exist, to extend their species. Dormant grass awakening to another season as tree buds form on branches. Soon they shall blossom to create a new canopy. The spring melt and rains swell the creek until it resembles a raging river. Anything close to the edge will be torn away. The churning waters wash up against the creek bed, pulling chunks beneath the waterline. Muddy waters disguise the chaos underneath. Unseen debris rolling and churning, battling against each other fighting to reach the surface, only to be sucked down beneath the waterline again. The sound of the raging water attracts the minds of people in confusion. An offering of resolve is issued by the creek, but few have the heart to accept it.

Mesmerizing moments transfix conflicted souls of the innocent, the raging creek draws them down to the water’s edge and offers a resolve. Let me absorb all that you are, it says. Fall into my turbulence and all shall be forgotten. Suicide comes at a cost to everyone. Blessed are the blind for the temptation of resolve is a sweet nectar, and once it has been tasted will never leave. I see through the eyes of a bird above the raging creek. I watch the muddy waters flow beneath me. I’ve been here many times before during spring run-off. The memory of myself appears in the distance, a young boy alone with his thoughts. Many times he has walked this path; it is the path of contemplation. His stride is slow, and each step is deliberate. As he steps towards the edge of the swollen creek his face becomes sullen, tears escape his eyes. He takes a deep breath, jumps into the raging water and quickly disappears. Each spring he appears, each spring I watch as he disappears beneath the waterline.  

As spring fades to summer, the seeds have been sown and inner peace arrives. The creek is back to a gentle stream, the green canopy is luscious; and the warmth of the sun invites daydreamers to lay in the tall grass as a tender breeze caresses their cheeks. Rustling leaves and swaying grass cause the dreamers to close their eyes and listen as spirits of yesterday sing of the heart’s fulfillment. Each heart sings its own song, each heart calls to the stars above, they rise like fireflies in the darkness and find their mate before the birth of a new day. Into a dream I travel as the trickling sound of the creek continuously feeds my memory and forever holds my soul.