I wrote this story for my creative writing class for the Fall 2001 semester. The assignment was to write a descriptive story, and this is what I ended up with. It's not an exact retelling of my first visitation to Max's grave, but the emotions that I felt and the beauty I describe are all very real. This is only based on my personal feelings. I hope you enjoy it.
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| I hate the fall because it’s always so gloomy and cold, but today was an exception. The sky was a brilliant blue and only a light breeze sifted through the air as I stepped off the bus. The day had finally come; I was visiting Ethan for the first time in months. I wondered if he would remember me or if our distance from one another had faded our relationship. Nevertheless, I impatiently headed into town.
The visit was going to be a short one, and all I had carried with me that afternoon was my shoulder bag and a card for Ethan. We hadn’t even planned anything, but I really wanted to talk with him because it had been so long since we had confided in each other like we used to. The end of our last school year together was hectic, and we never got a chance to say good-bye. There was a particular tree that I recall him describing as his favorite because of its beauty and serenity, and I thought it was the perfect place to meet him to catch up with each other’s lives. His town was a quiet one, even for a Sunday, and I wasn’t familiar with the area. I took out an unused but worn scrap of paper on which Ethan had neatly written directions for one of my many failed visits. According to his instructions, a five-minute walk down this street, creatively named Main Street, would lead me straight into the center of town, where I would easily see the park. It was the most prominent landmark in town. Ethan had invited me to come down one weekend last semester to attend an annual Festival. Although the thought of being outdoors in the pollen filled air, surrounded by screaming babies and childish games did not agree with my personality, I was looking forward to spending time with Ethan. Unfortunately, that was one of those visits that never happened. A calm and empty road, Main Street, headed through the center of town beyond which lay huge blueberry fields and forests of coloring leaves. The long drive here began in the city by our school and continued past the state border and through modern suburbs and nearby fields. It was a wonderful coincidence that two out-of-staters like us found our way to the same University. Thank goodness I took a bus, I thought to myself, because I never would have found this place, even with Ethan’s map. I continued down Main Street, gazing at the window displays and personalized doormats of each store, picturing Ethan growing up surrounded by this overwhelming charm. His intelligence, patience and good manners must have been a result of his cultured, although sheltered, childhood. The diversity and welcome hospitality apparent all around me was but one explanation for the perfect guy I had finally found in Ethan. A large sign on the right side of the street told me that North Grove, Massachusetts had only grown to include 3,981 citizens since its establishment in 1801. Ethan had told me stories about his hometown, and I suddenly remembered one instance in which he described, with gentle enthusiasm, the origin of the town’s name. After the discovery of a single, small grove of dogwood trees in a field of pines and maples, a modest community had formed. This grove became the center of town, around which most of the less than unique trees were cut down to make room for the little town. Ethan had told me that dogwoods were his favorite trees, and this was where I was going to meet him. Ethan had an exceptional appreciation for nature and life in general. I loved this most distinct trait in his personality because he respected all the simple pleasures in life and enjoyed what he felt fortunate to have. We once had a deep discussion about the never-ending negativity in our daily news, and we agreed that our goal in life was to rid the world of violence. Although it was an impractical idea, he was a dedicated individual who kept his word and was always there for me. We actually met in a meeting for the Environmental Protection Agency at school, and Ethan had previously volunteered for local organizations around North Grove. Only a few residents had found themselves outside at this hour. A tender elderly couple said hello as they strolled down the sidewalk past me. A family with two small girls wearing matching white dresses came briskly from behind me, pardoned themselves, and hurried ahead down Main Street. That’s when I noticed the sign: “Randolph Park.” I turned my attention towards the large iron gates marked “entrance,” stopped to look both ways and carefully crossed the road into which Main Street ended. Both directions were lined with vacant cars, but I didn’t see a single person in the park. I stopped underneath the wide gates and looked at the open, grassy field. The eponymous grove sat straight ahead of me. This is so Ethan, I thought to myself. The small grounds were well kept, and it appeared to be a favorite place in this small community. There were several benches scattered throughout the area, and flowers lined the outside fences. I forgot to bring a blanket, but nothing could ruin this day because it was almost impossible to upset Ethan. A few paths wound themselves around gardens and markers. I stepped up to the nearest one and leaned in to read the deteriorating stone. It read: “In Memory of Templeton Dean; Husband, Son and North Grove Citizen; 1881”. The only thing left of this man who had lived and died so many years ago was this molding rock, and I feared the day when I would be another forgotten name. The thought of having my own marker somewhere some day sent chills down my spine, so I walked back to the path and continued towards the grove. The excitement I had for our rendezvous became overwhelming as I came up to the grove, and my heart beat faster with each step I took. Dogwoods at this time of year begin to turn their various colors, and I witnessed the grove’s beauty float down into the vibrant carpet of petals and leaves. A few pink and white flowers blew delicately in the autumn wind or clung to the thin, twisted branches of the smaller shrubs. There he was, all alone, beneath one of the dogwood trees. Bright petals surrounded him, and memories of our times together flashed before my teary eyes. This was such a peaceful setting that it felt too perfect to be real, and I wiped my eyes to make sure I was seeing correctly. Ethan was waiting there for me like he had promised. I sat myself down on the autumn floor and waited for the right moment to speak. “It’s been so long, Ethan. I’ve missed you,” I whispered. A breeze came up and tossed my hair into my face. I tucked the hanging strands behind my ears while he replied in agreement. It was silent for a moment, so I decided to share some of my thoughts and feelings like we used to. “I really like this place. It’s...it’s very nice. You chose a beautiful spot,” I said. “I wish I had packed a blanket or brought something else to do, but just spending some time together is what I was really looking forward to.” The noontime sun shone strong on us, and the light wind from the lake was only occasional. It was warmer than usual for this time of year, and it reminded me of a trip we made to California last spring break. So many things today seemed abnormal, but then again, what is “normal” anyways? “These last few months have been lonely without you around,” I confessed. “It’s hard to have fun anymore when I’m at home, knowing that you’re way out here, all alone.” I continued. “But at least we got lucky with the weather today.” Unfortunately, I forgot my sunglasses and I was getting tired of squinting so much. “Maybe you could do something about the sun, though. It’s a bit too bright,” I joked. On the end of my last word, the wind grew stronger. The light breeze turned into a steady but comfortable current of air. It was just enough to reposition the branches of the dogwoods and shade my eyes from the sun. I smiled. “Gee, thanks! You always were a great listener.” One might think that a good speaker like me and a patient listener like Ethan would easily complement each other, but we never reached the point of intimacy that we both wanted. The common trait that brought us together was also the unfortunate enemy that kept us apart: our shyness. When we were together, we had been more than just best friends. We were each other’s confidants. I had never asked him about his personal feelings because I was afraid I might lose something I truly loved, and I think he felt the same way. A church bell sounded nearby and I turned my head towards the main gate through which I had entered. There was a small brick building on the far end of the park, and several hushed individuals converged outside on the grass. I watched them for a few quiet moments. They stood beneath another tree and bowed their heads. Their collective pain could be felt in the gentle breeze that continued to cool my face and dry my tears. I turned back to Ethan. “I miss you so much, Ethan,” I repeated, my eyes scanning the words on the marker in front of me: “Ethan Gregory Brooks: 1979-1999; Son, Brother, Friend.” It seemed too simple an inscription for my friend because it was impossible to memorialize such a bright and extraordinary person in a single phrase. The sounds of life all around brought me back to reality. Lively chipmunks and birds, the whistling breeze, and the peaceful stillness of the grove, Ethan had finally found the utopia that he strove to experience. I hated to leave him again, but my visit was over. I bent down, placed a picture of us on the headstone, weighted down with a small rock, and leaned my card up against his marker. Its contents had escaped my memory, but now belonged to its recipient. The writing on the envelope was distinct as I traced my steps back away from the dogwood grove: “To Ethan, Forever Yours –Laura”. |
