Story by Emily Schauer
I see your restless bouncing whenever we go outside. The city calls to me, you say. Something about the small-town autumn we find ourselves in, a transitional period. Tell me, would it ever get tiring walking the city the way you do? Or rather, the way you would, had you the time or the effort or the motivation. I know if you could, you would walk from the Walmart to the cemetery in a day: each footstep placed with purpose, intent clear in your motions and written into the pavement upon which you tread.
I would follow you, if I could. We’d start at one end of town, slowly but surely making our way through. We’d traverse down Paradise Path, shoes striking the asphalt. The soft heat of the autumn sun in our faces, a breeze blowing through our hair. The canal flowing idly by our side, the third companion in our group of two. You’d point out a beaver building its dam; I’d point out a stray cat slinking through the weeds. So often we forget about the animals we share this space with: from the birds to the moose in our forests, they remind us that we are not alone. Together we would walk down Main Street, gazing at the stores, the aromas of the restaurants and coffee shops and bookstores drifting across our senses. The autumn leaves or winter’s snow, our shoes would crunch—seasons changing in a small town.
We would walk past the movie theater on our way out, the doors open to the waiting crowd. It’s Open Mic night tonight over there, you’ll say, pointing as we pass doors thrown open, vocals and instruments pouring out from brightly lit places packed tightly with people.
We’ll manage to find a field. Flat, open, trees and leaves scattered around the circumference. Cover me in leaves, you’ll say. Lay your compositions on top of my stomach and watch as they blow away in the Northern wind that turns Moscow cold and white, signifying the approaching holidays. I’ll tell you I have always loved the community we find ourselves a part of. Something small compared to other places, but so diverse, bold and beautiful.
The cemetery en route to Troy sits on the other side of the field in which we’ll lay. The silence borders the vastness that is Moscow Mountain and the rolling field underneath it. Lucidity meeting sleep, mirrored in us as we’ll settle beneath warm blankets and towering trees.