The embers burn auburn to ash. His eyes burn too. But his fire is different—it is cold, empty, stark. He had left home on a trek with a backpack and his father. They were hiking through the mountains and camping along the way. Now he prepares a tent for the night as the fire wanes. Soft orange into gray charcoal. Crisp air, biting and sharp. A runny nose. The cold is descending. Golden autumn meant so much to him. He and his father would go backpacking together as the leaves began to change colors in the beautiful Northern Appalachia. He continues the tradition this year, smiling to his father he sees sitting on a log next to him. The son wipes a trail of snot that begins to sneak from his nose. In the distance, the burning sun has set, and stars begin to scatter across the sky, flames burning in the night, a collection of souls holding their own lives and stories. The son clutches for these, holding onto the souls of others that may still hold some power over him. He imagines floating weightless through these lights, wishing to see the world from their distant perch.
He turns to his father and laughs. “I remember when you taught me to look for the constellations. I was always amazed that there were these forms and creatures living up in the sky, far away, unchanged each night, waiting for watchful eyes to find them. ‘The constellations are forever,’ you’d tell me, and I loved that.” His father smiles back at him, “Ah, but you’re forgetting something. It wasn’t the constellations I said were forever, but our memories of them. You see, the stars will always be there, but unless we know to look for the patterns and creatures hidden within them each day, they are nothing more than a collection of lights. It’s our memories that live on and bring the stars to life.” The son ponders what is said, recalling his father’s wisdom. “That’s right,” the son affirms. “You always had so much to teach me. And I always loved these hiking trips the best because it was just the two of us, and we could forget about everything else. You taught me how to survive in a world full of brambles and thorns.” “I’m glad you think so,” the father replies. “But, it was really your mother caring for you all these years, you know that. I was working too much to give you the time you needed, but your mother was there for you.” “But I remember all the things you’ve done for me,” the son insists. “Besides, lately mom doesn’t talk to me much, or to anyone really.” It was his dad that had been there when he needed someone to talk to. “Yes, that’s true, she has been upset,” the father reasons, “but you know why.” “She can’t just ignore everyone. It’s delusional.” The father disagrees. “She’s trying her best.” “I know, but aren’t we all?” The son ruminates.
The question hangs in the air. Near silence follows, as the sounds previously unheard seemingly increase in volume. The soft withering of the fire, the dull whisper of the breeze in the trees, the soft chirp of lonely crickets. The son feels almost alone out there in the woods, encompassed by a blanket of darkness and quiet murmurs. He feels sleepy, worn out by the walking they had previously done. The son douses the tired embers with water, hearing their quiet hiss of protest, then father and son retire to their tent.
Under tired eyes, the son is filled with vibrant images. Vibrant but cold. His body is filled with tremors and shivers; the cold’s tendrils reach his very core. An empty chair. A salty stream. A locked door. He descends the black stairs, following the other shapes in front of him. He has just arrived home from school, dropped off by the school bus doing its rounds across the school district. A senior in high school, he feels the freedoms and responsibility that come with this. He knows his mother isn’t happy with his grades, but he is trying his best. He is eager to get home, to unwind after his tiring day at school. Looking around, he sees the orange-tipped leaves hanging from the surrounding trees. Fall has arrived and is eager to show off her colorful beauty. He approaches the stoop and opens the front door, waving goodbye to his classmates as they head their separate ways. He walks the long hallways in his small home. “Hey, Ma, Dad, I’m home.” He calls. He eyes the shining keys to the family car, silently praying that his mother will let him drive it to his friend’s house later. As he treads the floorboards, he hears a soft sound. A sob. And then another. A cycle of sobs following the first, barely noticeable but to the adept ear. He passes the kitchen table, nodding to his father who is occupying the seat at its head as he often did when the son arrived home, seeming to light up the room like a candle with just his presence. The father is holding some papers, likely for the patients he handles at the hospital. “Is that…is that mom crying?” The son asks. The father looks up, seems as if he is listening for a moment, then shrugs and returns to skimming the papers. The son continues down the hallway, drawing closer to the crying. He reaches the door to his mother’s room and pushes on the knob. Locked. A barricade stands between him and the source of the sobs. He jiggles the knob, and at its sound, the sobs shudder to a halt. A quick sniffle. Then footsteps. His mother approaches the door. He hears her hand fiddle with the lock. A click. Then the knob twists beneath his hand and the door begins to swing open.
And then he snaps awake, making out the darkened shapes around him. It was just a dream, he assures himself. But he knows this was too real to be a dream. He picks the shape of his father’s sleeping bag across the tent, and sighs in relief, comforted by the presence of another. He begins to remember his admiration for his father—the admiration he feels for the only one he believes truly understands him. One night as he lay in bed, his father sat next to him. On his bedside table sat a small candle, lit and casting flickering orange bursts across their faces, dancing lights shining in their eyes. The flame swayed on the wick, casting in motion the words shared between father and son. “I’m proud of you, okay?” his father smiled. “For what, dad? Have you seen my grades? I failed math; I failed English; I failed. Mom isn’t happy.” “Those stupid grades don’t matter. The school doesn’t matter, they can’t see the bigger picture. The world is so much wider than math and English and classrooms. Don’t let it get you down. You’ve just got to keep on trying, to stay on your feet even when you feel like you’re failing. As long as you give it your best shot, I’m gonna be proud of you, okay, kiddo?” “I guess,” the son shrugged. “But if it doesn’t matter, then why do we all have to do it? Why do we have to sit through pointless years of it just for it to not matter?” “You’ll see eventually. Don’t listen to what anyone may say. I’m proud to have you as a son, that’s something I know for certain.” The father squeezed his hand and turned to leave. He blew out the candle and walked to the door. “Thanks, dad,” the son managed, smiling, feeling truly loved, unconditionally. The son smiles in the tent, knowing his father truly cares about him, the moon’s crescent sliver, a burning flame. As his eyes close, the flame is once again blown out. He drifts back into a dreamless sleep, content.
Sunlight, a pleasant orange kiss on the son’s resting complexion, gently peeks through the tent’s mesh. The son’s eyes flicker open, embracing the amber glow. He wills his body into motion, standing and preparing for the hike ahead of them. As he packs up the campsite he thinks of the fleeting nature of their existence in this wilderness. They live in it only to pack up and move on, leaving nothing but their shoddy trail and tired charcoal. The orange flames are extinguished, and all that is left is dust. He will only live on in the forest’s memory, just as the forest will live on in his. But what is a memory but one’s own creation? He jolts out of these thoughts as he hears his father’s voice. “I’m proud of you son.” He smiles. Father and son, braving the wilderness, just as they have done the past few years. They walk in silence, except for the soft rustle of their shoes in the dirt and the occasional disrupting snap of a twig, following the tired path winding along the mountain range. As they plod through the quiet world, the son is lost in his thoughts again. Memories come to him in shards, holding rooted feelings in their cracks.
He struck a match from his father’s old matchbook. He laid on his side in his bed, on top of the covers. He watched the lazy orange flame slowly digest the ardent wood, burning it to black. Just before the flame reached his fingers, he blew it out. Then he struck another, failing the first few attempts until finally a flame was born. This time he brought it to the candle on his nightstand. He loved to watch the golden light move. It swayed and shivered, shifting at any sudden breath or change in pressure. And the hot, melted wax could be shaped into anything he wanted it to be. He heard his father behind him and turned and smiled. “Whatcha doing kiddo? Be careful with those, you know your mother doesn’t like you using them.” “I know.” The son groaned, putting them away. “Dad, why has mom been so silent lately? I can’t stand the quiet all the time. A house is supposed to be alive, full of laughter, memories, a family. A family that spends time together. Mom always just stares at you when we’re eating dinner. It’s creepy, it’s like she’s looking right through you.” “I know, I don’t like it either. But she’s upset with me, you know that,” the father consoled him. “You understand, right? She’s told you it’s a tough time on her.” “Yea she tells me that. Over and over, but I don’t get it. Why is it so hard on her? What’s so hard for her?” the son insisted. Everything was murky. “She has a lot on her plate,” the father explained. Suddenly, the door to the room opened. “Stop it! What’re you doing with that candle?” His mother whirled into the room. “I told you not to play with your father’s matches.” “He doesn’t mind,” the son quipped back. “Plus, you could talk to him. Geez, you act like he’s not even here.” “I’m not doing this right now. Just stop, honey, this isn’t easy for me,” his mother pled. “Just let it go,” his father nudged him. “Just let it go,” she said at the exact same time.
Son and father continue walking, the sounds of the wilderness the only thing keeping them company. The quiet here is comforting, so much different from the suffocating silence that the son hated so much back home. Here it is a voluntary quiet, not a forced hand choking the words from escaping through the cracks beneath closed doors in a broken home. But that quiet was so frequently broken by the harsh rings of the landline phone. That awful phone.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. Again, and again. No one answered. The son laid in bed, not making a move to answer it. His mother wasn’t home, and he knew the call was likely for her. No one he knew would ever call him on that. The answering machine picked up, clicking and beeping, and a woman’s voice filled the silent home. Hi Sarah, this is Kelsey from Radley. I hope you’re doing well. I just wanted to get your okay about a new medication we’re trying. Okay, well, call me when you get the chance, I know this can’t be easy on you. Thanks. Buh-bye. The son listened intently. She was calling from his dad’s new work. At least some sound had filled the house, even if it was trivial.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. His mother rushed to it and answered. “Hello?…. Yes, this is she…… Okay….. Good to hear….. Yes, I called earlier because I was—” He rolled over in his bed, the rustling muffling the sound for a moment. “—alone he talks like he’s talking with—” He focused on the candle. He had gotten the matches back from his mother’s room without her knowing. The orange flame danced gleefully. It seemed to hold words and secrets of its own. Its movement was so elegant and delicate. But it was confined to a small wick, inhibited by invisible boundaries. He felt the presence of his father before he heard the rustling of the covers being disrupted. “—it’s too early to tell?…Okay, well thanks for calling me back….Okay…Take care. Bye.” She clicked the phone into its receiver. She sighed, long and deep, holding that stale air in her lungs and letting it out in a shaky breath. As he heard her exhale, he did the same. And out went the candle.
The sun’s gentle flame is meekly extinguished and reignited by clouds and tree cover. The trees stretch as arms embracing father and son. They continue their trek. Oscillating footsteps. The rhythmic cracks and crunches of leaves and sticks. The soft whistling of a kind breeze. They continue their walk throughout the day, watching the sun slowly dip behind the peaks of the mountains. They place their stuff on the ground, preparing to set up camp for the night. The boy gathers sticks and wood for a fire, and then proceeds to set up the tent. He strikes a match from his father’s old matchbook, the flame growing out of nothing but the pressure of the stick on the box. And the second the match leaves the box, there is the amber glow. He lights the fire. Orange creeping up dry brush and growing, consuming as it moves. Leaving blackened ash in its wake. The light birthing dark. The flames are plastic, shaped by the wind and wood around them, swaying and dancing. As the night descends further, and the chatter of the forest is the only sound to remain, the fire is doused, and father and son prepare to sleep. The slow zipper of the tent flap. The rustling of a sleeping bag. Slowed breathing.
He enters his home after exiting the school bus. Some of the auburn leaves have already reached the ground outside his door. He sees the keys to the family car. Just maybe his mom will let him drive it to a friend’s house later. Very faintly he hears sobs emanating from the walls further down the hallway. He passes by the kitchen table, seeing his fathers shadow at its head, a dull gray. “Is that…is that mom crying?” he asks in the direction of the kitchen table. He pauses, then continues toward the sound, hesitant. He reaches the door to his mother’s room at the end of the hallway. His hand touches its cool knob and gives it a slight turn, but it resists. Locked. He begins to jiggle it, hearing the sobs halt and movement toward the door. And then it swings open, and there stands his mother, red-eyed with salty streams lining her cheeks. “I…” she fumbles for the words. “I’m sorry, I don’t want you to see me like this. I just don’t know what to do…what to feel…” “I don’t understand,” the son mutters. “But you have to understand, love. You have to understand by now!” she yells. “You can’t keep doing this! I just don’t know what to do. You can’t keep pretending or whatever it is you’re doing. You have to understand. YOU HAVE TO!”
A loud crunch sounds from outside the tent and his eyes flutter open. He is still disoriented from his sleep and his mothers screaming voice ringing through his ears. The crunch is followed by another, growing closer. Lights penetrate the the tent’s mesh. The son clamors to his feet quickly, his heart racing. What’s going on? Who’s following him? He steps out of the tent, shielding his eyes from the bright flashlights pointed in his direction. He makes out two shapes approaching the area of his camp. “There he is!” one of the figures exclaims. Two police officers approach him, one male and one female. “She said he’d be here,” the male officer says to his companion. “What…I…I don’t understand…” the son murmurs, utterly confused and frightened by the situation. “You must have the wrong guy, I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear! I’m just out here camping, I’m not bothering anyone.” “Relax, son, we’re not here to arrest you,” the female one assures him. “But you have to come with us. Please don’t make this difficult, we’re here to take you home.” “Home? But, I come here every year with my dad. I don’t get it.” The son stands wild-eyed, fearful of what is unfolding. “Huh? You can’t just leave home without telling anyone where you’re going, kid,” the male officer reasons. “Come on, we can get the rest of your stuff later, we just want to make sure you’re safe.” “But…what about my dad…” the son starts, but he follows the officers, realizing that arguing is pointless. His heart rate slows as he recognizes he isn’t in any danger, and he starts to become drowsy again, since it is very late in the night. After they follow the path for a bit, they turn onto a side path that leads to a clearing. There sits a police cruiser on the side of the road. It is still very dark out, and the stars have seemed to completely disappear, their flames no longer lighting the sky. The male officer opens the back door to the cruiser for him, and he enters. Then the door is closed, sealing him in the back of this foreign vehicle. But he isn’t scared. He is only tired. The female officer gets behind the wheel, and the engine of the car starts, ignited by a spark somewhere deep within the belly of the vehicle, but just as soon as the spark appeared, it is gone. Conversation between the two officers wafts to the back of the cruiser where the son’s eyes grow heavy. “Do you think we should we take him home or to Radley?” the male voice whispers. “We’re taking him to his mother. Jesus. She’s worried sick.” “But look at him. He’s clearly not well.” “You don’t have a kid. Back off. Anyways, he’s only 17, sometimes kids that age do stupid shit like run away.” “But that stuff about his dad?” the male voice insists. “Oh shut up already. We’re going to bring him home.” The words stretch into seconds, minutes, hours as the son drifts into a murky sleep.
He exits the school bus and makes his way to the front door of his home. Orange leaves. The keys to the family car. Quiet sobs. He passes the empty kitchen table, the room shrouded in darkness. “Is that…is that mom crying?” he asks himself. After a few seconds listening to the sounds, he continues in their direction. He then reaches the door at the end of the hallway, only to find it locked. He jiggles the knob and hears the sobs stop and his mother approach the handle. The door is swung open, and there is his mother, red-eyed and teary. “I…I’m sorry, I don’t want you to see me like this. I just don’t know what to do…what to feel…” “I don’t understand.” “But you have to understand, love. You have to understand by now! You can’t keep doing this! I just don’t know what to do. You can’t keep pretending or whatever it is you’re doing. You have to understand. YOU HAVE TO!” “What? What are you talking about?!” The son is wild-eyed, adamant, unyielding. “You know your father isn’t here. You know he’s at Radley after his schizophrenia episode. They don’t think he’s getting better. You can’t keep pretending that he’s here! I’m worried about you, I really am,” his mother weeps, the tears returning. “And I hate that your father is gone just as much as you do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t accept it. Why can’t you? Please?” “You’re wrong.” The son is firm. “You’ve just forgotten.” Son and mother stare at each other, one with an expression of concern and grief, and the other with a deep rigidity. But behind this rigid facade is a battle. The truth is somewhere in there, in those memories. “It’s our memories that live on and bring the stars to life,” the father once told the son. But did he really ever say this at all?
The police cruiser drives the empty roads, its headlights the only guiding flame. And behind them, in the woods, up the winding Appalachia trail, sits an empty tent, blackened ash, and a single pair of boot-prints tracing the mountain trail.