The space between the trees formed a natural path laid with red pine needles and brown leaves. Tannic aromas accompanying the sound of crunching under feet. Through the forest I went, not recognizing the place I’d come, until a familiar building came into view. It was older now. Old trees towered above, and new growth had me pressing aside branches to get towards the door. The forest had reclaimed this place.

Still I went in, searching.

Maybe he knew. 

Maybe he was painting himself. Some preparatory process for the upcoming journey. 

He stepped back from the canvas, removing his spectacles and wiping a smear of paint across his face. A painted man on and off the canvas.

(Image of "Nightfall" as reproduced in the catalogue for "Painting in the United States, 1945," at the Carnegie Institute's exhibition of Oct. 11 – Dec. 9, 1945. Sourced from Brandywine Art Museum’s website.)

On a day out in the woods, I remembered what I’d forgotten. As the dimming sky faded a dusky black, the red fire came alive. 

Children have a way of moving that I’ve forgotten over these long years. It’s like the challenge of going back to explain the basics to a beginner after you’ve mastered the art. Though all I’m a master of is old age. Every little thing I didn’t deal with, all the emotions, ruminating thoughts, failed ventures, they’ve stuck in my bones. Made me slow.

I watch my grandson float over the sand, his light steps barely leave an imprint. I am behind. An observer perched on a wall. 

“Don’t go too far!” I rasp as the boy breaks into the oncoming serf.

It was an early spring morning. The hills stretched out, hued a dusky blue, canopied by heavy fog. Murray’s eyes traced the familiar winding lane lengthening into the distance. Then he looked down at the cup of coffee warming his hand.

“There’s pleasure in the pause,” he tells me. “The trick’s that you know what to do with it.”