The Boy in the Woods

I’m ten years old, playing down in the creek at the base of our driveway. It’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. 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. The light is fading, and I await the call of my father’s booming baritone, yelling “Johnny, Johnny!” He normally calls for me, just before dusk, when Mom is preparing dinner. But he doesn’t call. The air is silent. It’s getting dark. 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. 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’s bedroom door but discover that it’s locked. It’s strangely quiet. I walk around to the front door of the house, but it’s locked too. So I ring the doorbell. Then I knock loudly. <a href="https://medium.com/personal-growth/the-boy-in-the-woods-63f351db5690">Read More</a>