The Boy in the Woods

<p>I&rsquo;m ten years old, playing down in the creek at the base of our driveway.</p> <p>It&rsquo;s winter 1974, and the woods surrounding the creek are wet from fresh rain. The acidic flux of old oak trees fills the air with a soft vinegar aroma, and the lichens smell earthy and woodsy, like a damp Harris Tweed jacket.</p> <p>I roll off the slippery bark of a felled tree, and return to my yellow Tonka truck, sitting half-buried in the mud along the creek bed. An assortment of metal Matchbox toy cars are scattered in the leaves, along with some plastic toy soldiers.</p> <p>The light is fading, and I await the call of my father&rsquo;s booming baritone, yelling &ldquo;Johnny, Johnny!&rdquo; He normally calls for me, just before dusk, when Mom is preparing dinner. But he doesn&rsquo;t call.</p> <p>The air is silent.</p> <p>It&rsquo;s getting dark.</p> <p>I trudge up the deer trail, through the brush, careful to avoid the poison ivy that has led to itchy rashes in the past. I crest the last of the trail and emerge on our front lawn. The grass is strangely dry and brown, despite the winter rain.</p> <p>I hear scrub jays calling one another and playing in the woods behind our house. I make my way to the brick patio leading to my parent&rsquo;s bedroom door but discover that it&rsquo;s locked.</p> <p>It&rsquo;s strangely quiet.</p> <p>I walk around to the front door of the house, but it&rsquo;s locked too. So I ring the doorbell. Then I knock loudly.</p> <p><a href="https://medium.com/personal-growth/the-boy-in-the-woods-63f351db5690"><strong>Click Here</strong></a></p>
Tags: Woods Boy