The Day I Lost You

I thought I tucked You safe in the backpack pocket—with your two little eyes peeking out. Yellow aspen leaves traced the wind like a dreamy poem, lucid before deep-set stores of green pine. The sky was so blue I felt its coolness slip into the fresh air around us, the easiest I’d breathed in my life.

Three steps ahead, Mom’s hiking boots plodded forward, sending stones and pinecones scuttling over the well-worn path to Lily Pad Lake. At the first incline, I thought You might have to come out of hiding to give me courage, because as I looked up the path, my stomach plummeted. The white trail cut through the bright carpet of leaves, the steep reach obvious. How was I ever going to make it to the lake? I was used to Dad hiking alongside, his pace slow as he noticed every insect along the trail or hidden by the pines. Things were different this autumn.

Fear of lagging too far behind forced my feet to drag even more, until a new set of solid stones appeared, and my reserve of energy kicked in, so I leaped from one stone to another. Then, the trail dipped, so I tipped my head back, the blue nearly blinding me as the sun tried to define itself between the trees. 

How easy to be a leaf and let go of things while knowing the seasons ahead would remain fair and the trees wouldn’t be bare for long! But I was only a girl, toes curled in my shoes trying to march comfortably on a trail determined by other people. Where was the adventure in following the footfalls of all the people before me?

The aspen here glowed golden above and below me, a treasure as bright as any adventurer could ask for in this life. The shimmering gold as bold as dreams of the new world. The slope of trees contrasting the stoic green and honey yellow as a distant blue lake glimmered under a breeze churned by a circling hawk. Every color so crisp, Crayola would have wanted to box it. 

“Melody, come on. We don’t have all day to dawdle.”

What else do we have to do today? I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep the question in, not wanting to irritate Mom today. Recently, every question I asked earned me a scolding: Stop questioning me, Melody. What do you think I am, an encyclopedia?

Dad would have answered my question, but he’d make up the answers—which was almost more fun. When I asked, Do you think pine trees get jealous they don’t change every fall?, he hmmed for a minute, stroking his tufty beard, then launched into a whole story about Pine and Aspen, two trees who were best friends, each jealous of the other’s abilities. Then one fall, a rude human shook a branch of Pine until the needles fell off, and Pine felt cold and vulnerable. That same fall, Aspen had a branch that held onto the yellow leaves, but they turned a brooding brown, and Aspen grew so tired from all the energy it spent holding onto leaves. After that, Pine and Aspen were never jealous of each other again. (His story about the spruce beetle though—that could give a whole forest nightmares.)

I was glad Mom insisted I come out with her to all the new things she wanted to try. Maybe I could find out what my abilities were, experiencing so much. Mom had taken on a lot, almost too much if you asked me, and often I longed for a simple night in ordering pizza and watching something silly. No rest for the woodsy gals, even if I couldn’t tell if Mom liked any of the new experiences. Even that day, while wind nudged yellow leaves so light they defied gravity, she didn’t seem to smile or pause to ruminate on the simplicity of colors. She wanted to move, as if the cloud around her head would dissipate when we got there!—wherever that was.

Mom finally stopped at the wooden bridge, water sliding over the smooth tan stones, but the water wasn’t in a rush. I always felt rivers were in a race, especially in a place like this when the shade whipped up a frenzy of chill and two cascades merged into a soft purr of water pouring into the little pools without making a splash or bubble. I couldn’t even pour water from our Britta pitcher without bubbles emerging, but this tender offering felt no pressure; rather, earth accepted it peacefully. Couldn’t we be more like these cascades? Why did we have to rush through all this beauty?

On cue, Mom called, “Hurry up!” down the zig-zag path. She didn’t slow but slipped between green pines with yellow leaves pinned to the needled arms.

My throat itched in thirst, so I ignored her pressure and unhooked my backpack from one arm, unzipping to spring free my stickered water bottle. The stickers didn’t sparkle like I hoped though, the dense trees around me blocking the sun. I popped down the mouthpiece and stowed the bottle in my pack, swishing the last of the water in my mouth before I swallowed.

I scurried to the edge of the bridge and hopped down onto the path, ready for another stretch straight up to where I hoped Mom waited for me.

It was then I noticed a few white clouds had joined the crisp autumnal delights about the mountains. I pulled You out to point out the dancing clouds overhead. You, Lagria—my fuzzy stuffy of a beetle—liked cirrus clouds, while I preferred thick stratosphere clouds, proud in their achievements of carrying rain until the gravity of earth stole their collection. 

Dad’s sister had stitched You together, sighing at her brother. “Who gives their daughter a stuffed animal of a beetle?” 

“I have to have the best for my budding entomologist!” What do you do with that? When you learn so early your dad has plans for you to be just like him. 

She stitched You a pocket though, which was “perfect rock size.” Most little stuffies didn’t have pockets, especially bug stuffies, so You were special. 

Perhaps it was Dad’s vast collections of bugs that made me interested in collections of anything—salt and pepper shakers, socks, katydids, vintage hats. What fascinated people or nature fascinated me. Dad learned fast to limit my collections, making me clean out my room of pop top tabs, Zippos, and movie stubs, but he allowed me to collect stones. He explained we had to be careful, only taking a single stone when the stone called to me. You helped me carry the stone, tucking it tight in your pocket.

You looked around now though, and neither of us heard the call of a stone, so I stowed you back in my pack’s pocket.

Still, I would want a stone from this hike, preferably a smooth one I could rub my thumb across to conjure images of the yellow swell across the mountain, looking more wild and beautiful every time I turned to see a new tree, leaf, and pop of color.

The path suddenly turned. The slight incline climbed past aspen with their gray trunks within arm’s reach. I stuck out my hand and touched the slim pockmarked trunk. The dark gouges in the solid gray-brown trunk broke something in me.

I found myself wiping away a tear—if Mom were nearer she would have said, “You are wildly sensitive, just like your father”—which may have made me cry harder. But the poor trees carved into with initials by passersby who were so afraid of love slipping away they had to chip the gray to mark trunks in paired initials and hearts. I hoped I was never so pathetic I needed to hurt a tree to confirm I was interesting or worth loving.

An orange leaf fell before me, and I thought it was the trees acknowledging me until I realized it wasn’t a leaf. Wings flapped and the small omen floated, moving up the path as if beckoning me forward. I think one of Dad’s butterfly books called it a Variegated Fritillary—or as Dad helped me remember it, the Very Frill Butterfly—the butterfly hoping a wind would help carry it south as the chill willed its way down from the pole. I wished immensely for a violet to fill its belly with nectar—did butterflies have bellies?—but as beautiful as purple would have been woven into this landscape, the royal color was strikingly absent.

Mom hadn’t strolled back to see what was taking me so long, but I was too tired to pursue her more vigorously. Losing sight of her didn’t scare me—though I knew there were dangerous animals in the area—it was her anger that scared me. Every time I did anything now, it seemed to upset her. Spending time alone in my room, asking for the phone, arguing over vegetables, it all set her off, like I was the problem, like it was my fault. I didn’t mean to be the problem. Like right now, I meant to enjoy the hike, but maybe she would be mad I couldn’t keep up. 

I trudged on, chewing on my lip even though it already felt chapped from yesterday when I peeled a bit of the lip skin off making it slightly swollen. The lip began to ache, but I bit it anyway. I wished we were there, at the lake already with pond lilies tilting toward the sun. As I stepped over a log, I realized a few pines had blocked the initial sight of the lake, the bony branches of pines pointing to things I couldn’t sense, but we were there, the lake a soft basin reflecting the high points of the mountains.

Mom had whisked off her Chacos, her toes already dipped into the neat pool. I gazed around at the subtle trail encircling the dark green water reflecting the pine trees at this altitude, the mirrored image scattering as a dog leaped in after a hefty stick, his fur clumped from the wet kiss of lake water.

The dog waded back on shore, dropped his soggy treasure, and harumphed as he padded back to his master on the collection of French gray stones.

I plopped onto a dry rock, the speckled gray granite against my bony body, happy to sit and rest my feet, slightly embarrassed as girls—a few years younger than me—bounded from stone to stone (one clearly soaked from falling in) with so much energy. Shouldn’t that be me? I was young, I was spry. But the sky chuckled with a growing cluster of clouds, reminding me to be proud of what I had done. I took You, Lagria, out to see Lily Pad Lake and take in the fresh air after being overheated in the pack’s pocket. 

Once I felt my breath had evened, I, too, yanked off my shoes and awkwardly stepped into the water, nearly losing balance because the water was so cold. No wonder the younger girl fell in. 

After a few minutes, the lake’s chill started to reinvigorate me. Mom splashed over and I worried she was going to reprimand me for moving slow, but she smiled wide as the sky opening overhead.

“See, Darling, we can do anything without anyone’s help. We don’t need anyone but ourselves.”

I nodded, agreeing to whatever she needed to believe up here, but I didn’t speak. I noticed how few lily pads there really were, how lonely one or two scraggly trees looked, early in their abandonment of leaves. Some promise lost. 

When the water splashed, I realized I had to pee. Really pee, and there was no bathroom at the beginning of the trail, or here. I looked around and sighed knowing I’d have to pee in the woods. It wasn’t the first time I had to pee in the woods, but the countless people here at the lake made me nervous, which only heightened my need to pee. 

I didn’t know if there was a good tree to pee behind, since aspen were too skinny. I worried people would be able to see me behind any tree I chose, but then noticed a pine with some green needled branches at the bottom. I sneaked off and did my business quickly. When I stepped out from behind the one tree off the path and out of sight, I froze, eye to eye with a moose. She looked at me, her calf prancing along behind. She stood as a grand barricade between me and the lake full of hikers. 

Stand up and look fierce, popped into my head, but no, that wasn’t right. Dad had always said to do that if there was a bear. What did you do with a moose? I wanted to back away, but there was no room, since the slope behind me was too steep. 

“I don’t mean you any harm. I just had to pee,” I said. The moose tilted its head, as if to say, I get you, and the calf skittered around its mother to be in front. It seemed frightened of me—me, an awkward girl so afraid of life it made no sense for anything to be afraid of her, especially anything on four legs already bigger than her.

The mother moose ambled forward after her calf, leaving me next to the pine tree. Once they were far enough away, I raced back to my mom.

“Melody, where in the hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”

“I had to pee, and you wouldn’t believe it, I—”

“Melody,” she snapped. “You know the rule, you have to tell someone where you are going.”

“But I saw—”

“It doesn’t matter what you saw, what matters is that you act responsibly.”

The bite of anger silenced me. If she couldn’t listen, I wouldn’t tell her about the moose, and she’d be the one to regret it. She flopped on a stone, wiped down her feet, and then slipped her Chacos back on.

My chin dipped, and that’s when I saw it: a smooth red stone, fiery as her tone. I plucked it up and turned to my backpack to stow it away in Your pocket, Lagria. But You weren’t there. 

I spun around, like the dog had done earlier looking for the thick stick, but I still didn’t see You anywhere. Had You fallen in the water? No, I had set You far enough away. Had the moose knocked into You? No, the moose hadn’t come this way. Had someone taken You? 

Around and around, I rotated until dizzy tears sprang to my eyes. I felt like I cried all the time these days, and it was usually embarrassing, but this time I didn’t care. 

“Lagria!” I cried, dumping the pack, in case Mom had moved You back inside. Granola bars, gel pens, and my notebook tumbled out, but no stuffy of a beetle. I looked in the pocket You were originally stowed away in, but the pocket was empty. I felt around every stone in a five-foot radius, reaching the edge of the lake where the earth was soft and muddy, imprinted in the small shoeprints of the two rambunctious girls.

Lagria, I lost You.

Mom noticed my frantic searching and said, “Gods, Melody, you’re too grown up to get all bent out of shape about a stuffy, especially one so ugly.” 

That was why I hid You, because she didn’t understand how You came with me every hike and carried the weight of my stones for me.

“I put her right here on this rock.” 

Mom sighed and glanced around with me, trying to find You. Mom’s forced smile tried to get me to let it go. When she saw I wouldn’t relent, she even bit back her pride and asked other people—people Mom thought judged me as I described the stuffy they considered a gross creepy crawly. Didn’t they all have their travel gnomes, finger puppets, or what-nots that they carried around the globe and photographed for social media? Who was I to be judged!

I looked so ardently that I lost sight of what was right in front of me. Everything fizzled in a terrible dizziness, the blue reflected in the cool Lily Pad Lake blurred until my eyesight turned it black. 

A couple appeared, beaming about the moose they had seen. Their smiles were so huge that the yellow aspen leaves dulled between them. Mom sniffed jealously at their tale. 

She could have seen the moose if she let me speak. Couldn’t she be happy now if she helped my find Lagria? Didn’t she make her own misery by trying to attain something impossible and missing what was real?

That wasn’t fair. I knew what made her miserable, what made her so angry she wanted to scream until yellow leaves shook from the trees. It was the same reason I stood crying, defiant that I would find You, Lagria . . . because Dad gave You to me, made You special for me, and I had already lost him. 

Eventually, I had to give up and accept that one of those energetic girls had taken You. Her parent would probably find You later in a pocket or pack. But what if she threw You away? That would be worse than if the thief loved You.

We started back down the trail, my body heavy with secrets. My secret of the moose, my secret of the rock collection at the back of my closet that Lagria was integral to, my secret of missing him. 

Dad wasn’t coming back. No matter how many bugs he studied migrated, he wasn’t like them. Insects had short lives and could arrive at the moment of their biology. He was different, his biology not prone to return to us. He needed more and less—he needed to be free of responsibilities. He needed pilgrimages to Mexico to see his monarchs and bivouac weeks in the woods with beetles. He didn’t need me, even if he said I asked all the right questions. Instead, he’d left me Lagria to keep me safe so he could be the first person to truly understand the flight patterns of dragonflies.

Under this yellow wood, I could not keep You safe. Did I need You to remember Him? Did I need You to keep the secrets of this stone, red as a heart and startlingly strong? 

I didn’t know any more, but the clouds were thick and graying as if gravity had worn them out. In the distance, I spied remnants of blue skies, sunbeams prying through the accumulated clouds, reaching down to the lake.

I wiped my eyes. My shoes scuffed against every stone, and I nearly tumbled when they shifted under my feet.

The trek should have been as beautiful as it had been on the way up, but I didn’t notice. Mom marched as if outrunning herself, or Dad’s voice in her head telling her she was an orchid mantis—always masquerading. (A thing I wasn’t meant to hear him say to her.)

The trees whispered around me even louder than the scratches of graffiti, wondering what they could have done to warrant oblivion, but I didn’t slow down. My toes ached as I turned my foot to keep from sliding. 

Sure of the direction, the descent seemed faster and suddenly we reached the pebbled road we drove in on. I frowned. Under the haze of disappointment, I had let moments go by without measuring their significance. 

We piled into the car, both silent, and drove home, the road bending between mountains slow with cars.

A few days later, I found a ladybug stuffy on my bed from Mom. It wasn’t You, it wasn’t from Him, it didn’t even have a pocket like Lagria beetles. Yet, what could I do? Mom was trying, but it wasn’t the same. 

Nothing would ever be the same because I lost You.