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Tuesday, October 4, 2011

The Path

Submitted by Patty Ciripompa
(Dedicated to Patti Berry Robinson, who introduced the path to me…)

Mostly, I remember the path in autumn. The season I used it most on my daily treks to Woodsdale, fall brought every bit of its splendor to this little plot of woods. A mystery to me, the beaten path covered in glorious color and sprinkled with sunlight smelled of hope and anticipation. I often wondered how it got there, about those who had walked through its beautiful woods before me, and why it was formed. A welcome change from the broken sidewalks and steep inclines of East Wheeling, the path felt like home the first time I crossed the tiny bridge over the brook on Elm Street. Though I loved, and shall always love, the neighborhood of my earlier years, the path somehow fit who I, at the age of 14, was becoming.

Having moved to America Avenue from East Wheeling in the summer prior to 9th grade, I was introduced to the path by a friend who lived on Elm Street and had known about it forever. Most who walked the path likely remember it as a shortcut. To Colonel’s for a vanilla coke at the counter, to the glorious plot of green field where we played touch (and sometimes tackle) football on Saturdays in the fall, to home through the snow in winter.

The stuff of poems crafted later from tucked-away memories, the scent of wet autumn leaves, or a glimpse of sun-dappled trees always bring me back to the path. It can’t have been a long path – the geography of the area between Elm Street and Heiskell Avenue dictates the brevity of it. Nevertheless, it was long enough for me.

Long enough to afford time alone in contemplation, or with a close friend sharing secrets and laughs. Long enough to give free rein to our imaginings of what we would someday become or accomplish in life, or do next to entertain ourselves on hot summer days stretching endlessly before us.

Though it wasn’t narrow by any means – two or three of us could walk side by side – the path left no room for fear. When I go there in my memory, I am always guided by light shimmering down through the tall trees, although each and every day, by the laws of nature, could not have been sunny. Yet there it is – the light. From its beginning at the bridge over the brook on Elm, to its ending off Heiskell, the path held no darkness.

Thank goodness those of us who walked it were not privy to all that awaited us on different paths in times to come. Had we known, had we been told the details of future joys and losses, how different the path may have become for us. For me, the path was a beginning. Always walking to, not away from, things to come, following beams of light that bounced joyfully ahead, like promises just beyond my grasp.

I wonder now if the path is still there, and if its light would still warm me if I walked it now. Sometimes, to find my way again, I need to go back there. To retrace those steps again and again – not to remember who I was, but to recognize who I am.