Wings (I'm going to edit this, the verb tenses and dialogue seem awkward)

Wings

    As you slammed the door of your Honda, you looked up at the home on the hill. The thick brush was as vast as a sea, with a small outcropping that had a single edifice on it, if you could call it that. It was about the size of your one-bedroom apartment, if it has decided to vacate the rest of the surrounding flats. The only break in the trees is a thin dirt path, worn from years of neglect. The first thought at this sight is “Why couldn’t she just live in retirement community?”

    This was a huge source of conflict between mother and I. Despite her being nearly eighty, she was determined to keep her small estate up in the mountains. It used to be her winter getaway, but since my father died it became more than just a summer retreat. First she spent the holidays there “To clear her head”, but the holiday quickly turned to spring, and then the summer, and now winter is on the horizon. The pine trees have already begun to some of it’s thick coat, and back home the leaves were turning into a fire of reds, yellows, and oranges. Halloween has already come and gone, with the holiday season approaching. Why she had the urgent desire to live up here is beside you- of all the places she could have chosen to have been a recluse, the outskirts of Tennessee was an odd choice for the retired accountant.

    As I began to climb the mountain, the temperature steadily dropped. A small bit of frost glistened on each of the spiny branches, like the powdered sugar on a funnel cake. The dirt trail was fairly straightforward, winding across the horizon almost arbitrarily, but had no splits in the path. The bristly fingers of the trees brush against your coat, as you continue on your way down the dilapidated path.

    A fallen tree blocks the route, and was covered with moss and opportunistic foliage. It was as if the tree had been there as long as time itself, and the realtor decided to build straight through it. A quick head of the head to your left and right tells you that the tree was quite large, considering each end of the tree spanned past the limits of your vision.

    “If I can’t go around, I’ll go over” I muttered as you planted one heel into the earthy log. I grabbed onto a nearby branch in an attempt to hoist myself up. One piercing “SNAP” quickly made me realize that the place in the universe is the ground, as I toppled to the frostbitten Earth.

    “Ugh, if I retire, I’m living in Florida, not the middle of nowhere. What does she even see in this place?” I murmured under my breathe. Apparently bouldering was not one of my many talents, but falling was. As I recovered from my tumble,and brushed the grim and pine needles from my jeans, my resolve hardened to get past this obstacle. “If I can’t go over, I’ll have to go around” I determined as I started to traverse alongside the trunk of the tree.

    And that’s how I ended up lost in the woods with no way of getting out. The forest is a maze, and unfortunately I am its captive. My cell phone battery was long dead, as I forgot to turn off Google Maps. The thick brush and needles prickle my skin as I attempt to navigate back to familiarity, but to no avail. What was supposed to be a begrudged stroll to Grandma’s house was turning into a real threat, as the temperature was rapidly dropping. My fingers had lost feeling long ago, and my teeth giving me chatters, racking my body with tremors.

    The forest’s silence was foreign to me. At first it was a little unnerving, but now it’s tormenting me. The shadows along the trees danced with their host in the light of the stars like they were being controlled by an omnificent being. The lingering silence was deafening with the thoughts running through my own head. Unexpectedly, the first thought that ran through my head wasn’t “What if I never get out of here?”, but a “What happens when I do get out of here?”. A severe wave of dread washed over my body, and before I knew it I was on the ground, like when I had take my stumble, but this time I wasn't going to get up.

    A light-hearted melody I recognized from my youth melody broke me out of this trance. At first, I looked around, and noticed a little songbird tweeting to its heart’s content, breaking the unbearable silence. A flutter of daffodil petals harmlessly playing it’s tune for the world to hear. I managed to force myself of my feet, but I was still absolutely freezing.

    The bird began to glide through the air gently but with a purpose, just North of where I had came, and the compulsion came upon me to follow it. At first, strolled lazily behind it, and it hung in the air as if waiting for me. I took the hint to increase my pace, and began to jog as carefully as I could down the path, with the songbird always just a ways ahead, whistling the same familiar tune. It’s pace outmatched mine, and eventually it went out of view, but the song was clear as day.

    I began to sprint, desperate to follow my guide. I couldn't bear to be in the silence again. The branches of trees caught on my jacket as a went, but the ecstasy of the moment was to much for me to notice, much less care. I was either laughing or crying, but I’m not particularly sure nor considered about which. The song was slowly fading into the whispers of the forest. Then I just stopped, and I realized that my fears from just moments earlier were gone, and that the winding path just came into view.

    The path lead me up to my mother’s tiny cottage of wood and stone, with a quaint chimney that puffed out a puffy cloud of smoke. I knocked on the door weakly, but  The view from above was a spectacle; the rays of the morning sun made the night’s frost glow, reflecting the scene from below. It made the neighboring town’s daily life look minute in comparison to the stretching sea of dawn.

    As I used the rustic brass knocker on my mom’s thick oak door, she appeared after the second knock with a worried expression on her face, and she asked a flurry questions like “Are you okay?”, “You were supposed to be here last night, what happened?”, and “Why didn’t you call?”, but all got settled with a sigh and a “I’m glad you’re safe.”

    As she lead me through her home, I noticed no walls were left barren, covered from everything to the photographs on the fridge to the paintings that were slung in the hall. She showed me around the place, and while it paled in comparison to my apartment in square footage, it instantly put me at ease. The living room had a half dozen paintings covering every inch of available wall space, with a couple of leather armchairs and wooden bookshelves aligning the back front surface of the room.

    We both sat down in the comfy chairs, and I sunk down almost three inches into the deep leather seating. When I looked over at her,  the chair nearly consumed her feeble frame. Despite her aged appearance, she had a vibrant glow to her, like a flame that refused to be put out. The fireplace that lined the wall in the center of the room was left unlit, yet the unmistakable odor of something burning wafted into my nose.

    “Mom, is something burning” I inquire.

    “Oh lord, my banana bread!” she yelped. She flung herself from the cushions, and rushed to the kitchen with surprising speed someone with such a meager frame.

    As I look around the living room, I notice the various knick-knacks she’s gathered over the years: a snow globe from Guam, a plate from some obscure band from the 70’s, an old lunchpail. However, the one item tells you why she chose to stick around this small cottage for the past year of so: a single ceramic songbird.

    And I realized that perhaps Tennessee was the place she belonged after all.

And perhaps it wasn’t such a bad place to call home.

Author's Note: I got inspired to write this based off some hikes I did up in Tennessee a couple of summers ago. It's where I got the idea for the setting and how I got ahold of the imagery. The story itself was kind of a reflection of the quiet environment, and the message is sometimes we're too focused on the end result to look at and care about what's around us.