A car parks in a small lot near a forest’s edge. It is the only one there.

A trail, not very wide, or long, and not frequently paced, slightly down the hill, leads into the woods alongside a trickling stream.

Maybe some kids are at play half a mile away in an open field. Or maybe it is just ambient noise, hard to tell.

A woodpecker sounds its earnest labors high in a failing tree some hundred feet distant, while the short path bends.

He walks, incapable of haste, some sacramental mood overtaking him. Assured of no disturbance — the rest of the world is busy commuting home from various labors of their day.

It gets quieter, the travelling water makes sweet gifts of peaceful sound. One other time he was here, a chipmunk hastened by just so…

Things look peculiarly less familiar than they once did. The shapes of undergrowth, the trail’s boundaries, the fallen branches.

Soon, what was once a sturdy log bench appears. A clearing once designed as a contemplation or resting spot.

The bench looks older, more weathered, closer to falling apart soon. But he tries it out.

There is still a tiny but appealing open place between the bench and the stream, bowed by leaves high above. Different, newer leaves.

The place still carries an imaginary sentience about it, as though it keeps track of things which have happened here. And weighs their emotional significance.

But its memory is not as crispy nowadays.

Then the light scatters through the sheltering canopy in a certain way…

Once a beautiful unpretentious woman stood there. Holding roses a friend had brought. Her face was solemn and joyful. Her clothing simple yet sweet. A man was beside her, younger than the observer recalled. He was a mirror, a mystery. He loved her. He did not know himself. But others liked him. He turns to face her. Holds her hand. A Justice of the Peace appears. A kindly mayor from a nearby village. He says some words, which meant something. They can kiss now. They do so only modestly, not to break the forest’s mood. They had kissed so much, so deeply, for years, anyway.

The forest received this ceremony into itself.

The man on the decaying bench watches a few moments after it fades.

Before leaving, he goes to dip his hand in the cool moving water and stares at the palpable passage of time.

Paramenides said that thing about rivers once. No stream can ever be the same. It is always different than it ever was or ever will be. If things were not like this, the universe would end.

He wonders briefly.

Entertaining the question whether perhaps she has ever revisited this place.

_______RS

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