I have Always walked this Path (Short Story)

People change all the time. I must admit I've changed myself many times. When i was young, I smiled a lot. Once I reached my teenage years I was pretty dark. These days I smile more often again. But there are some things that don't change. I have always walked this path. Every day since I can remember. It's dark here even on the sunniest day of year. There are so many tall trees that the light is always blocked out. But it's not a depressing dark, it's a beautiful dark. At least these days. I remember when I was a young girl I was always afraid of wolves, after hearing Little Red Riding Hood. I know that I still walk the path and I've never stopped. I don't get out much anymore, other than to walk the path. It's become a part of me. Even though the original reason to walk it has long since passed. The flowers are nice. I especially like the red ones... The red reminds me of passion. That's why I like them as much as I do. They have nice petals too, they're almost flawless. I used to pick the flowers sometimes and keep them on my kitchen table. It doesn't seem like I should anymore, I missed being able to see them only when I walk the path. The path is fairly long. Two, maybe three miles each way. I eventally reach the small bridge over the little creek. It's so pretty, made of oak. It looks new, but it's the same one I've walked over every day since I was a little girl. Hard to believe. I like to look over the edge of it the bridge and see my reflection in the water. It's not like when I when I look in the mirror. When I see over the ledge, I have golden curls to my weist and a young face again. My hair hasn't been that long in just short of 30 years. And my face hasn't been so young in well over 50. Yet in the water it never seems to age. I know it's probably my mind placing the image there, but all and the same, I feel so young just looking to the creek. After that I keep walking that path until I come to the old cottage. It's so old, no one's lived here for so long. And yet, I have reached my destitanation. Long, long ago, when I would still come with my mother, I would sit down with the woman who lived here and we would have tea. As soon as I was a teenager, on my own, I became intrested in her only son, David. He was very handsom - at 16 - and I guess I was in love. But the next year war called him in, and I never saw him again. No one, even his mother, who died 11 years after that, knew he if he made it out alive. There was no telegram. Nothing. My mother was always saying he'd come home one day. I guess that's why I still walk this path. Maybe one day he'll come home. Maybe one day I'll walk the path and they're be and older man living here, just as handsom as he used to be. Maybe one day I can walk with him.This is a short story I wrote in October for another site and didn't get any reviews for it, So I thought I'd post it here. I know it's not poetry - I hope no one minds! Written October 5th, 2001 © on Feb 04 2002 10:22 AM PST   0 • 8