Forest of Memories
Few places on this earth stay unchanged. People grow with the trees and wither away, the sand is washed from the beach. But one place, to me, has always been the same each time I go. For as long as I can remember, my family has always gone to Michigan in the summer for a week or so to visit family. The town, the lake, the woods, grandpa’s farm, the cabin- all of it stays about the same. My memories run together. I can no longer tell if an event occurred when I was only 6 or if it was just last year. That’s how little northern Michigan shifts from year to year. And it almost always feels exactly how I remember it-forever bright and magical and strange.
The water of Torch Lake is always an impossibly brilliant blue, and always clearer than glass. One can see to the lake bed far past where their feet can touch. But that cleanliness comes at a price, as the waves that extend far below the surface are forever frigid- though the lake never freezes, even in the depths of winter. And at night, as the setting sun’s crimson hues cast over the trees and reflect off the glass of the lake, when the motors of passing boats become silent, everyone stops to watch. The crayfish come out from their hiding places, and the crickets hold their applause until the sun is gone. And when the show is complete, the world goes on turning, the people go on talking, playing, not caring that the sun is gone. Fires are lit in the darkness and burn long into the night. Even when it rains, no one is dispirited from going outside.
But the water was never what I remembered most. Not the taste or the freezing cold or the clink of the chains holding the dock in place that could be heard when your head was submerged. No, for me it was the forest. The expanse of trees- pine, oak, maple, birch- that lay beyond my aunt’s house on the hill- that was what I remembered. I loved, above all else, to explore and roam wherever I pleased, never growing tired. The woods gave me life- energy beyond what I am capable of otherwise. Me, who otherwise tires after walking only a few city blocks could go on running for hours. Perhaps there’s something in the water, or in the air, or in the sunlight.
As I ran through the trees, the sun’s light drifted through the leaves, casting godly rays on the forest floor that caused the dust in the air to sparkle like pixie dust, and highlighting my next move. I’d take in every detail around me, from the birds to the bugs to the mushrooms to every last stick and stone in my path. And from behind those seemingly insignificant details, the ones illuminated by the sunbeams, I’d almost swear I was being watched- not by the birds or the deer or the squirrels or the cicadas, but by someone. Something- perhaps a faerie behind the toadstools, perhaps a spirit like those described in the books in the cabin, or perhaps it was nothing more than the trees themselves. In those woods, anything seemed possible.
What frightens me now on my visits is how the forest that never changes seems to shift. Places I know existed as a child no longer are where they should be, as if my age makes these magical places inaccessible- places only a child could find. The ferns that once were tall enough to swallow me whole, which would now come up to my knee, are nowhere to be found. The deer skeleton I found one summer, and the spot it was in, was gone within the hour. The deep riverbeds that have been dry for decades that I mapped out as a child no longer lead to the same place, despite starting where I remember them. The clearing past the hill- through the gate made by a thick branch that naturally grew bent down to earth, the one with a rock and a fallen log that I came to call my own through the years now evades my search. When I passed through that ‘gate’ the first time, I imagined stepping into another world, one of magic and faeries and will-o’-wisps and living shadows. Now, I wonder if I really did enter a plane other than my own, since any evidence that place was real cannot be found outside of my memories.
Now, I’m not going to claim that I saw a shadow stand up, or heard the flutter of pixie wings, or had a coherent conversation with an owl, but that time, that place in Michigan is one that the mere thought of leaves me spellbound even now. It all seemed perfect as a child, and that impression only grew with time. My family no longer visits Michigan so regularly. Life moves on. People wither and die and grow apart. But I know that if I return, when I return, the enchanted labyrinth of trees hiding the fae and the pure water that never freezes and the clear night sky that holds more glittering stars than one could ever hope to count and the air that makes one enjoy the act of breathing- it’ll all still be there. Somehow different, but forever still the same.
Olivia Zuern is a game designer, artist, programmer, writer, dreamer, and geek extraordinaire. Her inspiration comes from a wide variety of sources, and while she tends towards cheerful tales of myth and magic, she has become madly obsessed with Lovecraft’s terrifying tales in recent years. However, regardless of whether the idea sprang from pixie dust or eldritch mystery goo, her reasons for creating are always the same- to inspire, and to push herself a bit further than ever before.
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