Beyond Fitzpatrick's

I often trespassed on the property behind my father's house.

The roof was covered with moss, the deck wet with rot.

The house was for sale, but I doubted it would sell for its asking price.

As a kid, I trekked up the steep driveway carrying my sled just to

slide down, over and over and over again. There's no point in

respecting the property line now? The summer ended, the road was dead.

No one went there anyway.

I hiked up into the forest, the wet autumn leaves colorful beneath my Timberlands.

I climbed upwards, weaving through droplet covered branches, over thin logs of

fallen birch. My hood was up because it was that raw bitter type of rain.

I wished I was naked, eager for each drop christen my skin. I climbed further,

wondering how far I needed to go to escape the distant roof lines.

To feel completely one with the wood.

The grey sky carried a bright, but dim light. Dusk crept over the mountain.

I stepped on top of a dark brown trunk the waterlogged bark that collapsed beneath my size 6 boot. I stepped from moss covered rock to moss covered rock, pretending the dying leaves were hot lava. I followed the invisible path that led me by the stream.

The mountain run off cold, but weak. I was relieved to be alone in my discovery.

Still, I looked over my shoulder to see if a woodland critter had picked up my scent.

How much further until I reached the top? Was there one? Would I see a mountain lions? There would definitely be fisher cats. There wouldn't be any houses, no secret street, or a weathered tree fort waiting for me. Like the one I found when I was young.

It was just me, my thoughts and the rain on a chilly fall evening.

I smelled the smoke from the fire that burned steadily inside the wood stove.

My mind wandered to thoughts of a warm bath or a dive into the cold lake.

But then I thought of sitting in the rocking chair, in front of the typewriter.

I felt infinite in my solitude. I could do anything without anyone knowing.

Until a car door slammed and ripped me from my fantasy.

Double Exposure Film Self Portrait by Shelby Coppola

This poem was written in October 2021. I spent a long weekend by myself in the Adirondack Mountains. I used a s'mores stick to press the exchange on my Hasselblad to take the self portrait above.