Choices Along The Appalachian Trail.

"Is this our path?"

My son has turned one-hundred-seventy degrees from the obvious footroad winding downward through the trees, and points at a trail that is no trail at all, but simply a group of rocks descending a cleft in the hillside. Down in this small valley, towering boulders rest this way and that, creating a network of caverns and miniature mountains, through which a tiny stream splashes down, gathering in shallow kiddie-pools between the rocks.

The scene entices, mercilessly; hunger sits plain upon the boy's ten-year-old face.

"Is this the way we go?"

The only answer is yes.

He is gone with a yelp, to the dismay of his sister. She moves slower, necessarily, because sixteen is too grown for sensible shoes. Her ankles are an angry red and blisters are coming, if they haven't arrived already.

"This is the trail?" she asks, doubt heavy in her voice as rich blue eyes – my eyes – watch her brother slithering from boulder to boulder.

Her brow furrows, her lip falls slightly, her face wears confusion as she looks from the boy, to the clear path we have been walking on, and back again. "I have never been here before," she murmurs.

That is not true; as a tot she played in this same waterfall, bouncing about with stark white curls and grubby hands, eagerly building fairy houses of sticks and leaves and blossoming adornments against the edges of the great stones. She has forgotten those days, I suppose, forgotten that there was a time of sweetness and unquestionable togetherness, when her mother was not a villain intent on destroying home and security, but her friend and guardian, a fairie queen whom she believed could fly.

I do not correct her memory. I know that divorce, and divorcing parents, especially, can cause wings to fall off faerie-mothers, and can cause a child to forget much.

"You do not need to follow your brother," I tell her gently. "You may stay on the main path, and meet him at the bottom of the hill."

She hesitates, reviewing her options again: the wide, safe path, or the wild one. She reaches up to touch the soft blossom of a tulip poplar over her head. She used to call them fairy-bells.

"This place smells different," she murmurs. "Intense."

"Bad?"

"Pure."

Then she bends and moves sylph-like down into the rocky labyrinth. Her brother leaps and splashes enthusiastically, calling, cheering, eager to share with her. He darts beneath a large slab and she joins him from the other side. Hushed tones and laughter bubble out among the dancing waters. I cannot determine what they are saying, but they rush out suddenly together. Both of them are barefoot, and they shuffle forward into the shallow pools, giggling as they offer their toes to the tiny waterfalls. My son scrambles up to the next level of rock; my daughter tucks a fallen blossom behind her ear, and twirls.

I am grateful we have chosen this path.