A Forked Road

In life, some things mark us; choices come along and reveal who we are at our core. Each leaves, a stain that spreads slowly over time, into the person that we ultimately become. Our past is a road map which leads us into our future, sometimes preparing for an unseen fork in its path, forcing each and every person to choose a road: that which they know and that which they do not.

We as people must choose one of these roads, many times over, as they are offered in many different ways. The potential for a life known, and unknown, laying in the palm of our hand as the map spreads out before us.

I, in my short lifetime, have made countless choices, just as every other person has at one time or another; some wrong, some right, but few such as these I make now. Each of these moments is utterly important in the person that we ultimately become. Those few moments destroyed us, and made anew, in one drawing of a breath.

Such a choice came to me some years ago; one that I had not realized was upon me until the moment of its arrival. My innocence had protected me up until that time, the world appearing only in jumbled shades of black or white.

I had no idea who or what I would become with the coming and going of one summer night.

I had gone with my best friend to Arkansas, to visit their family. Their father was one who was quite funny and kind hearted. He had a time performing for us that night with odd dance moves from the seventies or eighties, or something to that effect.

The stepmother was thin with long bony limbs, possessing beautiful oddly colored golden eyes. She had a delicate nose, that was very long upon her face, and a mouth that could make a sailor blush if agitated. As well, my companion had three younger siblings, who were nice enough for their age. They were happy to stay out of our way, and to themselves. The three of them did not understand what we were talking about most of the time, nor did they wish too, content in their more childish games.

The grandparents next door were old as most are. Ancient various appliances lay forgotten upon wooden shelves, dust accumulating just around antique family portraits, nailed into the walls. I know now, that the two elder people did not have their home in disarray because of choice, or laziness. But because, in fact they were unable to clean as they once had, because of their own body’s weaknesses.

The home itself smelled of Marlboro cigarettes, and ancient upholstery. Which might have been placed upon the furniture as a gift, when the eldest couple had been first married. My friend, the three younger children, and myself spent the hottest part of the day propped on the wrinkled fabric of rough material, so I remember it well.

Each of these people were, interesting in their own normal way, although they did have funny sounding accents that left an odd twist on the tip of my tongue.

The family was, a common one, but distinctly kind in their manner. Too one another, as well as those people they met on the street, or anywhere else. This kindness was something rare to my young eyes, as well as in the world, although I would not come to understand that fact until later date.

They would always try to involve everyone in their daily activities, from washing dishes, to cooking a quick dinner at night, everyone was equal, and everyone played their part.

We spent our time as younger people do, swimming in the ancient riverbed that rested down the road; we slurped frozen purple crushed ice drinks, under the shade of a very old oak tree, happy to be freed from the torture of the summer sun if only for that moment.

Late in the third week of our stay, we went to the carnival that had come to town. Firstly we went to the small funnel cake shop, buying two for all of us to share, being as with the three younger children that counted five, ‘younger’ people.

Each of our pale faces was covered in a white sprinkling of sugar, and sweet cream. We had gulped down the greasy food easily, slurping happily on the coke we’d brought with us from the house, every one of us content.

My friend and I both tried to win a cheap stuffed elephant from one of the game stalls. Failing to throw the small yellow ping-pong balls into the hoop several times, before we shouted in frustration. My companion’s father came over to help, and won each of us each one of the large stuffed gray elephants, though he did spend several times their worth in the process.

My friend and I rode each of the old worn metal rides, at least ten times. Laughing loudly as girls do, as we were spun, twisted, and shaken dizzy, late into the night.

Our bodies exhausted, we finally made the trek back to the family’s home. My friend and I escaped to the ‘cave’, or a back room that we had happily claimed the first night of our arrival.

I can remember slipping into my nightclothes, body feeling all to wonderfully weary, as I drew myself into the large bed that my friend, and myself shared.

Even now I remember the pattern on the mattress cover, a shaded old flower print of green, and yellow, and small daisy’s maybe. Although it was too faded, now for anyone to tell, what it had been originally.

That night wasn’t cold, as it was in fact summer time, so we let the blanket cover only our legs. It offered a sort of openness, which had always seemed foreign to me, the room reigning under its weight.

I remember the feeling of staring at my friends slowly closing eyes; long dark lashes resting against pale freckled skin. An irrational fear spiked through my heart and mind, as if a tearing twisting tornado, my hands were shaking. I took a deep breath, unable to close my eyes even when I dreadfully wished to do so.

I knew I would do something wrong.

Silent as death in the sticky clinging summer air, I leaned forward and kissed my best friends pale lips with my own. Shaky, in my movements, and blindly afraid of my own actions my hands and arms could not help, but be fitted firmly at my side.

I could say nothing.

I had kissed my best friend, who was just I was, a young girl.

That one small action will for the rest of my life mark me, it soaked deep into my skin, and down to the white bone that rest beneath. Some part of me believes that even after death, the mark will remain.

It represents, stain of hope and choice, to last throughout the ages, even when my mind and soul has faded into memory.

It is obvious to me, through my own experience that with that childlike fearful press of lips, I gained my own independence. My own feelings and personality streamed outward, in a burst of wild flame, I had not even realized existed until the match had been struck. It allowed me a separation, from all those things that I had always been taught to fear.

So I must say that a choice has too much power of us for it to be wasted. Each and every one must be revered, for it decides, not only our future, but also who will become, within that future.

Through our own choices, we can choose to see the goodness and light of this world. Taking too our hearts, that all we do is of our own chosen personality, and assured that through all we suffer, we will still be, as we are meant to be.

An individual, who is not afraid to take that unseen, and unknown fork in the road, of life no matter what unknown universe rests ahead of them.