Back to my fields and forest.  The open spaces are golden, the lace looms.  Berries begin black on green briar walls.  The gravel kindly chats condolences.  Dad is no longer a worry; no longer a wonder when.

I walk through the late summer webs of memories and “I wish I did” and “If only” get on my face until tears wear them off.  The roots catch my feet with my watery eyes.  The back sides of leaves like paper litter the soft shadowy clearing.  Stillness.

The path eternally beckons, calmly settles in the grass.  Whether I tread it or not, it remains true.  It will disappear if not used; it will reappear with fellow trudgers.  The path is patient.  The walking is choice.

I celebrate today Dad’s legacy insisting existence with words.  The inevitable urgency we share of scribbles on paper.  Life into words into sharing to the unknown reader, to express the unexplanable brilliance of a fly in the field, sun on my paper, bird chatter and dog walk morning.

Since so many have gone before us, I’m confident there is a well-trod path awaiting me beyond this field.