in my daily travels, meandering on my way towards the next destination, it wasn’t uncommon for me to run into many a stranger.
on a particularly miserable day, on a beaten path i’d taken many times before, i met her for the first time.
she had long, brown hair that seemed to turn to wisps at each end; eyes so deep you felt there were many stories left to be told; and a voice remarkably sweet yet poignantly marked with exhaustion.
i approached her with caution, just as i often did before, and called out to her with hesitation.
she turned to me, and with a soft smile, introduced herself.
she calls herself life, she says, and she meanders just as i do, yet to find another travelling soul along her way.
unlike my purposes, motivated by fame and fortune and satisfaction, life was compelled with travelers, insisting on a shared story for just a fleeting moment.
i disembarked, and we sat underneath a tall oak tree.
she wove elaborate tapestries of learned experience, rambling on and on about stories of her favorite travelers.
she shares tales of those motivated by money, by frugality; by lust, by love; by fame, by scarce friendships.
immediately, i can’t help but notice that each story ends in a trailing whisper that reflected a feeling deeper than disappointment; it was almost as if each story tore a piece of her very essence away from her to tell.
curious, i ask her about her hesitation - surely, her stories are as happy and giddy as she tells them!
she smiles weakly and meets my gaze, before looking to the sky.
“my son, the clouds we sit beneath rise and fall like kingdoms; the grass flourishes and withers like old love; this very oak tree bears rings that tell tales of abundance and misfortune.”
i find myself utterly confused, yet absorbed.
“you see, i’ve told each tale no less than a thousand times. i meet travelers such as yourself along their merry way, and we laugh and smile for what seems like hours.”
“we share laughs over stories of grandeur, smile brightly at fantasies about long-awaited love, and lament about our dreams and inspirations alike.”
“and yet, i’ve never once seen a traveler happy to leave.”
fearing i misunderstood, i listen more intently.
“you see,” she echoes once more, through those weary eyes of old, “my stories serve to remind them of their adventures, yes, but my presence signals none else but an end of a trail.”
“for when a traveler sits and laughs with life, they don’t feel success, happiness, or gratitude; they instead long for what they could have had.”
my face contorts to that of shock, knowing i’ve been read through all the same.
“my son, for when you encounter life and discuss many tales of your own, you know one thing to be certain: there may very well be tales you wish to have been able to tell.”
she sighs gently, head resting against the weathered trunk of the oak tree.
“no one wishes to tell life about their failures, their insecurities, their pitfalls - it means they retain no hope of remedying what was once lost.”
she stands, offering me a hand, and the clouds break miraculously.
“it means they’re reflecting on what can no longer be.”
as i take her hand and stand, i brush the blades of grass from my trousers, only to realize life has gone quicker than i could blink.
i desperately search, hoping to hear one more story or enjoy one more fantasy, but all i find is rolling hills of green.