Whose Woods These Are

                                           By Jeff Baker

            I remember the chill in the air, I remember it being refreshing. I remember the orange surrounding us, like painted walls of a room. I remember the trees standing on either side of us, like they’d parted to make way.

            And I remember my Father standing as tall as one of those trees, walking by my side.

            I must have been about three, and I assume I’m remembering it now because my Father, now gone these many years, is about to become a Grandfather. I do not know how he would react, let alone what he would think of this world of cellphones and interconnectivity but I know one thing; when my son or daughter is old enough, we will come here for a walk among the trees, emblazoning the golden leaves into memory.

                                                           —end—