I sat in the living room window watching my parents pile camping gear into the car. Tents, fishing poles, some ugly green tackle box, lanterns, you name it. I’m not sure how many cans of bug spray we really needed but my mother had decided 6 was an appropriate number. My father has more preoccupatied with cooking essentials and hitting the road soon. I’m not sure what urgent plans awaited us in the woods.

The over preparation was probably a product of the fact that we were indeed not an outdoorsy family. But something had changed. Some sort of fever seeped into my parents minds that elicited a newfound interest in exploring the beauty of nature. Perhaps my perpetually tightly-wound parents could find some peace in the stillness of the woods. And naturally, I would be forced to endure whatever new ventures they concocted. But this one felt different…

My hands were idly playing with the pocketknife I’d sharpened in anticipation for this trip. my mother and father insisted upon extensive packing list for each of us. I took it upon myself to bring a few unapproved additional items. A backup hunting knife was concealed and sheathed carefully into my pristine, hiking boots. I had some provisions tucked away in my new insulated jacket that I just taken the tags off of. In the other pockets, I’d manage to tuck away: a flashlight a hastily printed out map matches a compass and some basic first aid items.

All of these items were acquired carefully and quietly.

I heard the muted thud of the trunk closing. My mother‘s voice was urging me to “get a move on” and get in the car. And with that, I flicked away the blade and joined my mother and father on a trip into the unknown.

The drive was well underway. My parents were in the front holding hands and giggling and laughing and singing, along to an old station. I noticed a worn red tackle box tucked neatly away under the passenger seat. I found that strange considering the one my father just bought was a nauseating lime green.

Well, they were distracted upfront belting their tunes, I used my foot to lightly coax the box from under the seat. As the roads grew more bumpy, I was able to pop it open unnoticed on a particularly steep hump. A revolver sat there neatly lodged with unopened ammo.

Neither one of them claimed to own a gun. In fact they had been quite adamant that they were anti-gun as they were unsafe and didn’t want any in the house with a growing teenager, myself.

Suddenly their front seat harmonies were uneven and clashing. Which one of them was the liar?

What was really going to happen on this venture into the woods?

Sometimes I sit and stare at the pavement and watch feet shuffle by. Each pair falling in stride with another. The steps making sound in unison. I envy that rhythm. I envy the harmony of conjoined laughter for I have fallen silent. No joyous sounds pass my lips and my gait lands noiselessly.

Sometimes I hear the echo of you in a random moment. Always random. Jarring and sudden. The reality of your absence temporarily suspended whenever i hear your chuckle come from an unfamiliar vessel. Or when I see a passing figure with dark curls blur past. Or when I catch a familiar air of that deep and husky cologne. In those little stolen moments I lose you all over again. Because just for a moment you’re almost tangible.

I miss you.