The Way HOme

Never lost, not really.

The Way Home

One foot follows the other…one, two, then again. So simple; no conscious thought needed. My mind has moved on, to the mountain, to the forest of the high country where the autumn wind gathers her testimony from century-old trees―a riot of colored leaves like coins of gold to cast upon the forest floor as she readies my bed for the night.

I shield my eyes, and squint, follow the ridge before me bathed in that brilliant light seen just before sunset. Turning, I say goodbye to the desolate trail behind me, to the boulder-strewn landscape, so barren except for the thick cholla and the giant saguaro, formidable entries that guard the path of red clay that has filled my shoes, tiny particles of the silk-powered earth that coats my body like a second skin.

I bend to this desert floor and lift a fistful of red clay. Dry now, but I remember how it felt when the rains came, how it quickly became sticky, slippery mud, how it held on to me...pretending to give moisture but only drained nourishment from my skin.

I let go of the red soil, watch as the swirling evening breeze carries it away toward the mountain, as if leading the way home.