Mushroom

The quiet voices hummed behind the maples.

In the woods behind the old factory houses,

I was trudging up the rooty path. The sun

Had just gone golden at the edge of the hill’s crest.

Sweet air softened at the change of light.

Birds made their last inventory of the evening.

Looking up, I missed an oozy patch, slid back,

Kept my footing. I looked up to see them,

Young and muscled mother with her muddy sprite.

“Come on, baby, let’s let this lady pass.”

They stepped into the grass, and I did too,

On the other side. It seemed like six feet.

“I like your hair,” she said. “The gray is nice.”

“I like your ink. How far to Glen Parker?”

“You’re almost there.” “Thanks,” I said.

“I’ve never walked these woods.”

The child began to wander. She allowed it.

“I guess everyone’s dying to be outside,”

She said. “I’ve known these woods forever.

Used to work over on Spring Grove, run this way

Back home, if you can believe it.” We were silent.

Then the little one spoke. “Mushroom!”

There it was, pale and perfect in her little hand.

“You can have it.” Then the small brow darkened.

“I can’t give it to you. We’re not sposed to touch.”

I caught her mother’s tight apologetic smile

But just as I drew breath to say all right

The girl’s small smile split the air like lightning

And in that flash I saw the lifetime of her gifts,

The big sister with the book under the blanket,

The aunt with the last puzzle piece, the grandmother

With the teapot and the fragile photographs.

Carefully she walked to the middle of the path

And put the mushroom down. She looked up

To make sure I understood, stepped back,

Took her momma’s hand. I stepped forward

And bent to take the mushroom. As I came up,

I met her gaze. We smiled, me bowing low

Before that queenly pair. The ceremony finished,

I left them and took the last part of the path

Strangely light on my feet, almost running

Over the networks silently connected beneath me,

Out of the darkening forest into the fading golden light.