TROLLEY

My feet didn’t make a sound walking down cabin row to knock on the window frame where he slept. He was out cold, even though I told him I’d be there, so I reached through the large screenless window and shook him. 

We were teenagers moving through the woods. My feet padded like a cat while he rustled leaves like a squirrel or a chipmunk. My hand rested over the flashlight lens to cut down our night blindness and visibility as we made our way to the open space of the baseball field on the hill.

I never invited people on my middle-of-the-night strolls through the woods at the overnight YMCA camp in the Berkshires. My mom was the program director there for years, a thing she’d do on her summers off from teaching. Sometimes, I visited her at her cabin. Sometimes, I met up with friends. Mostly, I took space for myself in the fresh air, as I still do on the trail or in my garden. There isn’t much alone time at sleepaway camp, and I’ve always needed it. But that night I invited him.

Noiseless walking and comfort in the woods were gifted to me when I was five or six at the first summer camp I attended on Sebago Lake in Maine while my mom was in Boston working on her Montessori certification. My favorite counselor, Sarah, taught me how to place my feet on a floor of crispy detritus just so as to not disturb the world around me. She was tall and strong, had a darker complexion than my easily burned skin, and long, thick black hair that she let me practice braiding. She moved at a slow gait, pointing to plants, rocks, bones, animals, and birds, sharing their uses and value in the environment.

Sarah carried me on her shoulders or held my hand. Talking, answering my questions, and feeding my curiosity and wonder. She taught me how to observe, experience, embrace time, and love the natural state of life —instilling the knowledge that my body and voice have value in this world and that I am brave. 

When she discovered my love of reading, she shared stories her grandmother told. Grandmother stories are still my favorite. This was forty-two years ago, and I wish I remembered more details or knew to write them down. But the shadow of the stories, the silent walking, and the curiosity embedded themselves, creating an essential part of who I am.

Even now, I barely make a sound when I walk on a blanket of old leaves. My silent footsteps startle people and dogs all the time. It upsets dogs the most. My feet don’t clack clack clack in heels or thud thud thud so anyone on the level below me can follow my traverse or shake shake shake the furniture in my wake. When I wear flip-flops, I force the rubber to smack my heels to announce, “I’m coming.” Walking alone in the woods, I sometimes scuff my feet to tell any unsuspecting critters of my presence. Other times, I creep so I can observe without intruding –perfect for an eavesdropper.

The plan was to go solo that night, but I asked him as a way to share this bit of myself I never told anyone about. He wore an oversized green jacket from an Army-Navy store and used it as a blanket on the dew-covered field. We lay on our backs with our knees bent, watching the Perseids rain down shooting stars. 

These thirty-one years later, twenty-one of marriage, we still walk in the woods and search the night sky for wonders. Last night, we shivered together, looking through binoculars to observe the Devil comet along the fading pinkish-orange horizon and I thought how glad I am that I reached into the screenless window and shook him awake.