20 November 2012 fiction, "The Path"

There’s a path behind both of our houses, and it’s one of our favorites. Sometimes, we just like to walk along it, and I swear there’s nothing better. She points out all of the little things, pulling me along and never letting go of my hand. I wonder what it feels like to be excited by the same moss on the same tree each time I see it, but I don’t think I can truly understand because I will never truly be able to see through her eyes.

Margot is the name of the little girl who is my neighbor. Her parents both work ten hour shifts each day to pay for the house and the tuition for her brothers’ college. It isn’t fair to her because she is just as special as they are, even if she was born a little bit later and little bit less planned.

They trust me to babysit her every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after she comes home from preschool, and each day she tells me with the enthusiasm only a four-year-old can have about the games they played or the letters they learned.

We like to take walks on days neither of us is too tired, and sometimes we pack a sandwich for dinner and simply stay outside and explore. Our favorite game is I spy, and I think that she will grow up to be a brilliant scientist or something, because she is a child prodigy. I know I might be prejudiced, but sometimes I truly cannot see a single flaw in this beautiful child.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, but sometimes it’s simply too cold to walk along it. Weather here in Wisconsin plays quite a part in our lives, because the winters can be quite brutal.

Third grade has made Margot a little bit different, but I suppose we always knew that nothing can last the trials of time without an ounce of change. She has more homework than we’re used to, but it’s nothing we can’t figure out if we sit down and think about it. Occasionally I ask her to walk along the path with me, and she is always up for an adventure. But the moss on the trees is less exciting than the squirrels that scamper quickly up so high in the trees it appears they’ve entered a new universe.

She still holds my hand, because you never can tell when a root might jump out and try to trip us, and she trusts me to keep her safe more than her parents trust me to watch her more often because elementary school has proven to be an expense when it’s added to her cousin’s inherited high school tuition burden.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, and sometimes when Margot brings one of her fifth grade classmates home with her, all three of us walk along it. They collect leaves and ask me politely to hold onto them so we can add them to the scrapbook when we get home. Margot never forgets to squeeze my hand gently as she places another leaf identical to the fifty others in my palm.

We don’t go on the path as much though, because Margot is very busy most days, doing her best to get prepared for middle school. It’s a big step, she says, because she will finally be labeled as one of the big kids.

Though not everything is the same, I know Margot enjoys our Mondays and Tuesdays together because she always smiles and promises to make me cookies I know I will never taste.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, but we only go when the day is warm enough.

Seventh grade is kind of tough on Margot. She comes over each day after school because there are so many trials of middle school that I simply did not know about. It makes me happy that she wants to share her life with me, and I hope each day that she will always have something good to add to her woes. She always seems to find a little bit of sunshine because she hates to see me frown. Little does she know that she is my sunshine.

When we do walk on the path, she brings her sketchbook and we sit on our favorite bench. Sometimes she draws the trees and the moss, sometimes she draws the squirrels, and occasionally she finds a beautiful leaf that she will add in. But mostly, she likes to draw me. I don’t really understand why, but it makes me happy to know that she is doing something she enjoys, and I am willing to sit still for her. I never have been the fidgety type, so I guess I’m a pretty good model for her.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, but there are long breaks between our visits there. Margot is busy with eighth grade, but she still manages to stop by on Sundays, when she tells me all about her week. I’m happy that she still seems to enjoy my company, although it’s been a while since she’s drawn me. She likes to draw things from her imagination now, and it’s really cool to see what she comes up with. I don’t want to brag about her, but I think she has incredible potential and I know that whatever she does, she will be great.

I love to watch her as she speaks. She gets pretty into what she is saying, and I think it is the most fascinating thing how her eyes look off into space sometimes, as if her mind is somewhere completely different and much more interesting. She uses her hands to talk but I don’t think it is distracting at all.

When we manage to find time to go on the path, Margot tends to get a little quiet. She isn’t sad, I just believe she is thinking. She always tells me about her life at home when we return from the path, and I wonder how hard it is to see her parents fight like they do.

It doesn’t matter what she says to me, I love to listen, and offer advice where and when I can.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, but with freshman year coming to a close, we haven’t found time to walk on it in quite some time. Margot has so much to do, she’s part of six different clubs that she’s told me about, and I just don’t know how she does it.

Every other Thursday seems like a small amount of time I get to spend with Margot, but I don’t know how I could ever judge the time we have together, it’s too precious.

I certainly do love to look at her sketches, she’s become very passionate about them, and has been drawing almost every day. I sometimes wish I could find a passion like hers, but then again, in life, passion isn’t able to find everyone.

Her parents aren’t really what she likes to talk about, but her friends seem to take up a lot of room in her mind. I like that she has lots of friends in school; it makes me feel secure that she is happy there.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, and sometimes Margot asks if she can go there alone. She always pleads with me to wait for her, but I’m not sure why. She knows that I would wait a millennium if it meant I got to spend precious time with her.

She doesn’t ever talk about her family, and I haven’t heard much about her friends from last year, but it seems she’s found someone more worth her time—a boy. I fear she is spending too much time with him, since she can only come one or two Thursdays a month, and she doesn’t spend as much time with friends, but I have never been one to meddle, I’m more of a passive listener.

Her sketching is the only thing that has remained constant. She loves it and has filled up two sketchbooks in the last month! I love that she has such a wonderful talent and I hope she never forgets the joy it brings her.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, but Margot doesn’t ever want to go on a walk on it with me. I guess her junior year and the break-up with the boy are hitting her hard.

I haven’t heard anything about her friends, and the other day I had to hear about her parents’ nasty divorce from seeing Margot’s aunt at the mailbox.

She sketches more than ever now, but her drawings are becoming kind of dark. She says it’s the style, but I think it’s more of a phase. Sometimes I wish she would sketch me again, if only to see the smile she would get from telling me to stay still.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, but with my move I haven’t been able to get there in quite some time.

It’s the beginning of Margot’s senior year, but I haven’t heard anything from her about college. She never has been the planning type though, and I know that her advisors and everyone at school will help her more than I can, so I try not to worry.

I hope she enjoys her visits with me, I know it’s tougher with me in a farther location than a five minute walk. I love when she comes to talk to me, but she doesn’t smile as easily as she used to. I have to crack a lot of jokes to even get an acknowledgement. She stares off into space quite often, and I wonder what she is thinking. I hope she’s okay, but she never tells me what’s wrong, and I can’t see her as often as I’d like, what with her being so busy and me being stuck with no transportation.

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There’s a path behind both of our houses, and I am walking along it today. It’s the day of Margot’s graduation, and I grip the piece of paper and pencil, gritting my teeth through the arthritis and walking to our bench.

I don’t know what to write, but all of a sudden I feel a raindrop slide gently down my cheek. Suddenly the words start to flow and I realize the rain is coming from my eyes. I don’t know how I will get the words out, but I know that for Margot’s sake, I have to write.

Something is resting on my bed, and it hurts to realize I didn’t see it coming. The warning signs were evident when she said premature goodbyes and gave all her possessions away, but the thing she saved for last was for me. Her sketchbook swallows my feelings and makes me wonder with numbness why she didn’t think I would protect her. I wish only to hold her hand one more time and protect her from the roots that nudged their way into her brain. A life given up is no guarantee for eternal salvation.

She’s gone but it’s not the way she should have left.

Because today is her graduation and I’m writing a eulogy instead of a congratulatory speech.