The deep dark woods

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.*

Photo by Anton Atanasov | www.pexels.com

It is a magnificent house - stone, metal and glass combined into a grand mansion that shines like a well-polished shoe. White curtains flutter in the windows on the first and second floors. The main door is open – an invitation to enter.

The drawing room is empty, the sliding doors open and leading onto a wide patio. Laughter and music float gently, carried by a soft wind.

The birthday party is in the garden – a huge garden. The grass is even and lush, like a carpet under my feet. The garden does not have a wall. Instead, I see the edge of a forest – the green grass blending into a thick undergrowth of shrubs and wild greenery. Tall, majestic trees line the border, like foot soldiers guarding the entry.

Pink and white balloons are everywhere. They have not been anchored with strings. They float on a phantom breeze, gently swaying left to right. Tables are set up on the patio. The paper plates are white, interspersed with pink and white checkered paper napkins. There is a cake on the table, three tiers, with pink and white icing, little pearls dotting its edges, complete with eight blue candles on the top.

I look down at myself. I am a little girl dressed in a pink and white dress, lace socks up to my knees, and white shoes on my feet. I run my hand through my hair. It’s short and pinned with a little satin clip on the right side. I am holding a birthday gift in my hands, wrapped in pink tissue and a thick white ribbon.

A game of tag is underway. Children are running around in circles, laughing and shouting. I can’t see any of their faces, only a whirl of dresses as they dance around each other. I want to join them and wait on the side to be noticed.

A gush of wind moves through the forest like a giant wave, crashing at my feet and lifting the hem of my dress. The trees at the edge of the forest begin singing – a strange song of leaves and dried twigs.

I feel a sudden urge to go to the forest. The song calls me invitingly. I start walking towards what I think is the entrance into the deep, dark woods, a small dirt path between two massive trees. Halfway through the garden, I break into a jog. The children vanish as if they were never there. I turn back to look at the massive house. The pink and white balloons continue to sway, the cake waiting to be cut. But there is no one around.

I must get to the forest. The wind picks up pace, matching my rhythm. I am now running.

I feel every breath, every inhale and exhale. I am no longer wearing shoes or socks. My bare feet touch the soft grass, feeling the droplets of water on their blades and the moist soil of the earth. As the forest looms closer, I begin to feel lighter. A heavy weight lifts off from my shoulders with a gentle tug. The tension releases from my stomach, the tight knot untangling and evaporating. Layers upon layers of stress peel off me, like clothing. I feel weightless.

As I approach the small dirt path, the forest song reaches a crescendo. The wind threatens to turn into a tornado. The trees sway madly, dancing as if in a trance. I have to hold my dress down with both hands to stop it from flying all around me. My short hair whips around my forehead, the strands cutting into my skin and hitting my eyes.

I am tempted to turn but can’t. The forest pulls me in. As I take the first step between the trees, the crackling energy around me subsides into a gentle hum. The song is over. I am greeted by the calling of birds and the rustling of leaves.

I look down at myself. I am an adult in a little girl’s body.

The forest is old, lush, and green—the kind you see in fairytales. Brilliant beams of sunlight zigzag through the trees. I continue to walk, admiring the bright red and pink flowers that dot the dirt path. Mushrooms sprout from every other tree, and insects buzz lazily. It is so very quiet here. I can hear my footsteps in the mud, my breathing, and the swish of my dress as I move.

I look around and notice that the trees are identical and evenly spaced, like dots connecting to diamonds. The trunks are massive, with roots growing out of the earth. It would take four adults holding hands to hug one tree. But that is not the strange part.

Each tree has a hollow carved out at its base—no, not carved. It looks like each tree has grown organically to form a hollow shaped like a cot. The sides of the cot are carved with intricate illustrations. I move closer to examine the beautiful drawings on the side. There is a paper boat sailing in a river, a man, a woman and two children outside a cottage, a landscape of hills and mountains in the background, and a small car hiding behind a boulder. I touch the wood, running my hands over the drawing. The cot is large, in length, breadth and height. I hold the rim, stand on my tiptoes and peek in to find a child sleeping.

The branches of the tree form a canopy above the cot, shading the sleeping child. I place a finger under his nose to see if he is alive. His breath is warm and even. He does not notice my presence. He is in a deep sleep.

The forest is calm and quiet. I feel a sense of peace here. I walk from one tree to another. Each tree has a cot, and each cot has intricately carved drawings, ranging from flying dragons to elaborate castles. Some have families, and some are alone. I realise these drawings are from the lives of the children who sleep. The forest is an endless maze of trees and cots.

I don’t remember how long I walked, how many sleeping children I saw, or how many lives I witnessed through the carvings in the wood. Eventually, I reach an empty cot. No stories are carved on its side, and I know this cot is meant for me. I feel tired and drained of energy. I want to crawl in and fall asleep. But I know that if I close my eyes, I will not wake up. A deep sense of dread fills me. My time to rest has not yet come. I have to return.

I turn back through the maze of trees and the sleeping children towards the party, the music and the laughter. The minute I leave the dirt path through the two trees and enter the garden, a heavy knot punches through my stomach. I continue to walk towards the patio. The familiar weight on my shoulders returns. The cake is being cut; plates handed out to eager children. The layers of stress, like clothing, are heavy on my body. I am wearing my shoes and socks. My feet feel heavy. I can no longer feel the grass. The wind is mellow, and the trees whisper a farewell in hushed tones.

I am no longer a little girl. The party is over, and it’s time to go home. I could have stayed. I should have stayed. But I have years yet to live. If I choose to sleep now, the drawings on my cot will be incomplete.

I will live my life the way I am meant to. I will write my story and leave it behind for you to read. When the final chapter is done, I will return to my cot, leaving you as witnesses to my life.

I know now that death is peaceful, but before that, a whole life must be lived.

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*An excerpt from the poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost.

This essay is an accurate account of a dream I had many years ago - or at least as accurate as dreams can be when we wake from them. It has stayed with me, perhaps waiting to be written.

The first draft was written in response to a prompt at the

Ochre Sky Stories

Writing Circle. It has grown since then in detail as well as word count.

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