To be young in the woods; aimlessly wandering off into the acreage of  the deciduous forests that call Northeast Ohio home. I recall the trepidation that greeted me along with the first sun-beaten trees. As the residential street began to fade, and the autumnal piles of leaves on the forest floor grew deeper and deeper, a sort of catharsis washed over me. I was no longer living within the finite hamperings of household and homes alike, but rather immersing myself in a world that had preceded even my oldest of kin.  Entertainment was to be made, not had.
My harrowing cavalcade advanced deeper into the wood. At this point, we were now standing over a rushing creek that stood between us and our destination. Whether I could scale this creek or not hung heavy in my head; a qualm that could only be settled by eliminating any and all present fears. I leaped for safety and self worth, and landed humbled by the few drops of creek water that made the fabric of my jeans home.
We had now surpassed the most perilous part of our expedition. With each passing step, the lavish comfort of commericaliality became apparent in the horizon above. After an ultimate climb up a riverside mound, we had exited the jumble of trees to find ourselves staring at our destination: a local farmers market.
At this young age, independence was craved but hardly granted. Trust to venture out on our own was seldom valid enough to grant our release. But after conquering this quasi Epic into the wilderness, the world opened up like a sea of crimson red hue. Granted, the food we bought was a prize within itself, but what I value most was the exodus from the comfort of our parent’s home into the unknown that the woods provided.
Like the setting sun or the advancing tide, my friends and I had to return home. With stomachs full and confidence reaching a narcissistic zenith, our close knit family returned into the wood with an arrogant sense of familiarity. Not only did we know the terrain, but we now eliminated any and all fears of the unknown. With facile ease, we reached the suburban development, leaving varying drops of water from our soaked jean bottoms on the radiating asphalt below. I like to think that those puddles were sealed in perpetuity; a fanciful but unrealistic desire that I know would evaporate. But maybe… maybe, those few patches of cement could maintain their moisture, proclaiming to the world of our triumphing success and independence.