ahead, cutting through the fog and mist, he has such confidence in his body and his whereabouts -- it is a talent I never had myself. Like headlights at night, I can only see to the next bend in the curve, but beyond that is pure abyss. He is giggling too, I hear his sneakers squeak against the ground, and this is good because it distracts me from my sister, but she is saying something that seems strangely significant: …Brutal honesty is just a form of selfishness, she concludes. What was the beginning of that last thought? I missed it. She would say something like that, her and all that no-mind philosophy and tanned skin and perfume that drowns out her imperfections. My ear is buzzing, and I am resigned that it will never stop. I walk the trail that hugs hill and hollow, and the fresh winds pry me open, fill my head, freeze everything, like how the back of my mouth goes numb when I eat ice cream too fast. Come
 | | on, come on, my son urges, and finally I can laugh. I chase after my boy, my sister ambling behind. And then the path becomes something that could still be path, or a random bunch of footprints on leaves, no, maybe just mud that resembles a path, I am calling for my son to wait up, and even my sister is out of sight, left behind. Clouds muffle the sun, and each step leads me further into darkness. It is as if I have stepped through a trap door. The temperature has dropped. The wind kicks up, the trees weave and saw. It is difficult to tell in the dimness, but there seems to be frost on the plants around me, caking the bushes. I blink hard, stop dead, perhaps I have taken a wrong turn, and in the moment of my pause I hear the approach of something, perhaps an animal. It is clear to me now: my son is running from this thing, and he is trying to lead me, in all my stupidity, to safety. Best to stand here, let whatever it is that follows
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