It Should Be Green

As I stand by the side of the road, which is as close as I can get right now, I look out at the woods I know so well. I spent my childhood in those woods – exploring, hiking, climbing. Those trees, the rocky dirt trails hidden under their branches, the stream that runs through them – they hold so many memories.

Somewhere under those trees is the spot where I fell in love for the first time. I can remember staring up at the stars as he timidly reached out and took my hand in his. I was so nervous that I couldn’t stop giggling.

I caught my first fish on the lake just a mile down the road. I was seven years old. I can remember standing on the lake's shore with my dad’s hands on mine, pulling my pole back and letting it fly. I can still feel the excitement at the first tug and my delight as I posed for a picture, my proud dad all smiles behind the camera.

My first real injury happened there too. I broke my ankle when I tripped on a rock. I remember tears streaming down my cheeks as I was carried down the trail.

I almost lived there once. After a fight with my mom, I packed my backpack with snacks and a change of clothes, grabbed my jacket, and left the civilized world behind. As the sun set, I thought I had found the perfect life – nothing but the stars above me, the ground beneath me, and the clean, open air around me. I went home six hours later, soaking wet from the rain.

I know those woods better than I know my own family, my own house. They have been my home when I felt like I didn’t have one. Those trees were alive long before I was born, and I always believed they would long outlive me.

But now, as I stare at that familiar tree line, only one thought crosses my mind.

It should be green.

Not red-hot with orange flames engulfing everything in their path and thick, black smoke rising into the air, blocking out the sun and the blue sky.

It should be green.