Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees and made dappled, shifting patterns on the surface of the road. The old turnpike wound through the ancient wood seemingly at random, though she knew it was not. It had simply been easier to steer the carts and horses of bygone days around forest giants rather than commit the time and manpower necessary to attack each in turn with axe and saw. Houses and inns had been built along the cart road, farms established, loves won and lost, families begun. This evolution of the countryside over 200 years had been such that much more than trees would have to be removed to make the road straighter now. Thus the black asphalt had been the only concession to modern times. At some point lines had been painted on the surface, but they had long since faded into obscurity in most places, diving into potholes or under cheap tar road patches, rubbed out by years of neglect and hundreds of tires. Everything seemed run-down and lonely. Forgotten.
She preferred it this way. Where else but on this old New England turnpike could you drive through an enveloping tunnel of leaves and sunlight? The illusion of solitude and peace here was so deep it was almost oppressive. She shut the radio off and rolled the windows down despite the early spring chill, listening to the hum of the tires on the roadway and the low level growl of the engine as she smoothly eased the car around a bend. The soothing sounds seemed to perfectly complement the environment through which she navigated and the smells of a New England forest seeped into the car. She breathed deep of decaying leaves and moist earth, tree bark and hidden spring flowers.
A knee high pile of stones edged out of the forest and turned so that they ran parallel to the roadway for a time. She reflected that these lichen covered boulders had once been obstacles in some poor mans fields and how, through his blood and sweat they had become a wall that had stood long enough to become a monument. Her car downshifted automatically as the road pushed its way up a short, steep hill. A few trees had been cleared from the top providing a panorama of the surrounding forest. There was just enough space to pull off to the side of the road onto a gravel shoulder and she did, breaking under the spreading branches of a familiar sugar maple. A sign had been nailed crookedly to the tree long enough ago that the bark had begun to grow around it. She could just make out the faded red letters amongst the flaking of rust. “Frost Heaves Next 5 Miles.” Memories flooded in now. She remembered standing on the shoulders of a giggling friend to cross out the “5” and replace it with the sign for infinity in dark red paint. She had been 15 and at the time had thought this small act of vandalism equal parts rebellion and hilarious fun.
She got out of the car and walked into the clearing, her heels sinking into the moist spring ground. She took them off and walked barefoot, savoring the feel of the earth on bare skin. Someone had been thoughtful enough to put a picnic table here once, but it had seen too many New England winters and its rotting planks now only provided comfort to insects. The undergrowth had begun to overtake the clearing and new spring tendrils edged out onto the open ground
It had been too long since she had been back here. She spun slowly in a circle on top of the hill, taking in the forest, the horizon broken only by the steeple of a tiny white church in the direction the wandering road was taking her. This had been home once. This hilltop had once been her favorite place, her secret fort as a child, her escape from a father who always worked too hard and occasionally drank too much. Her first kiss. Her first bottle of whiskey. She wondered if anyone had been there since those days. It looked unlikely. The next generation must have found their own place to savor their illicit youthful moments. She clamored up the stone wall, heedless of her expensive clothes and sat for a time on top of the loose rocks and closed her eyes. This land was in her blood. So deeply ingrained that not even 20 years on another coast, in a world full of glass and steel man made mountains, movie moguls and palm trees could remove it. Even now, despite all she had done to forget this place and fulfill her high school promises to escape the boring small town life, this hilltop still felt more like home than her condo.
Sitting there on top of the wall on the little hill she couldn’t fathom why she had been away so long. Why she had stayed away. Why she had run away in the first place. Why it had taken the death of her mother to bring her back for the first time. The sad thought brought her out of her reverie and she moved back towards the car. She threw her heels into the back seat and paused for a moment with the drivers door half open to look up at the Frost Heaves sign. She shut the door again and rifled through her bag for a minute before finding a permanent marker. Hiking her skirt she climbed up onto the hood of the car, the metal still warm against her feet and leaned against the tree with one hand. Even the texture of the bark felt familiar. Reaching up with the marker she again scribbled out the 5 and added a bold infinity sign amidst the rust. Hopping down off the hood she got in and started the car, pulling back out onto the old turnpike, leaving the hill behind her, headed home.
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