The Path Not Taken

The path was a tunnel, the floor ankle deep in fallen yellow leaves, the roof a glorious meld of vivid orange and crispy brown, the walls a tangle of red and purple berries. It led to the past, my past. Twenty years; what would he be like now? What would he see? The lithe eighteen year old had long ago changed, accepted the burdens and scars of life. And he? The enthusiastic, if still unfinished teacher/lover, not yet dedicated to the teaching he provided, had surely mellowed with professorship. This long ago familiar path that rustled under my feet, was still colorful, but most assuredly, no delicate green of spring was visible in its vivid glory.

I walked my long abandoned way through the woods behind Carter Hall (the home of the history department and the housing of my past) into the autumn of my years. I wondered why I agreed to come, and where I was going. The flutter of anxiety--and excitement--hid beneath the leggings and long wool sweater I favour now; my hair clipped back against the influence of the chill, fall breeze. The blue jeaned, long haired, almost woman I was peeked warily out from behind my eyes.

There he was, waiting at the other end of the straight run section of the path where I often ran to him. I did not run now, but slowed my walk. The jeans and tweed jacket that had been, and perhaps still are the "professor's uniform" reassured, although the figure in them was heavier and the glasses he had not worn, were unknown in my memory.

He removed them as I approached and I looked up into the older face and his unchanged bright blue eyes. He pulled me close and kissed me.