Pareidolia

My soggy boots thump down into the earth next to a rotting stump, the perfume of wet earth and green growth filling me. It Is a hair too cold for my liking, but just sunny enough to ward off the chill in the small clearings where I breath deep and rest, leaned up against a tall damp birch, my eye lids slung just low enough so I may witness the sky. The scrape of my coat sounds along with the jingle of its open zipper as I slump down onto a pile of roots. Itchy, brown needles and a pile of thick earthy moss greet me down here.

I see one then, I see them often now, more often than I would like. Forty feet over the long grass and tall purple flowers in the clearing, the knots and lines of that white birch stare back at me.

This time, my father, his bark covered face telling me he’s proud of the son he raised, how well I have done, how far I’ve made it. He would like to be here with me, he says, but his mouth never moves, like a statue that demands your respect, your affection, one that tells a tale you can’t ignore. He goes on about our family, my aunts and uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces, he was always so good at that. they are all still doing well he assures me, and I assure him I’m keeping up with them the best I can.

He stays this time while the buds of flowers, hundreds of them shrouded by purple petals, shift into sight. Hundreds of faces begin to turn their eyes upon me. Men, women, and even some children look to me, a thousand questions I cannot answer in their gaze. They ask if I am content, if I am happy, if I am satisfied without saying a word.

I look to my father’s stony gaze for help before throwing my head up to the sky. A single cloud hangs there, high in the chilly winds, bright and full, like one from a children’s storybook. It envelops me in its cool comfort, drawing my eyes from the chaos that surrounds me, my mother’s face tells me everything is alright, she will swat the demons and discomfort from my mind.

As it all becomes too much, I squeeze my eyes tight and push my legs against the soft, damp earth. My jacket scrapes again as my body is shoved into the tree and I stumble forward, out into the small field of flowers.

Lilacs, young purple lilacs sway and pick at my jeans as I stumble a few more steps before correcting myself. They remind me of my grandparent’s home, the one surrounded by that deep purple that steals your gaze for a moment. I wonder for a brief moment if they are in that sea of beauty in front of me.

While I try to pick them out, I can hear my father, he asks of my happiness, my comfort, so I do not have to live like him. His face is still there, carved out of that tall tree.

A chuckle escapes my throat now, the first noise short of a whimper I have made until now. I look to him, only him now, if only I had time to meet all of them. He assures me they have met me and that they are proud like I am, and those who are not will have their time as I am having now.

They are all still there as I walk on, through the trees, through the mud, and rain. I will see them again, in that empty forest, alone.