The Diarassia Not Taken

A journey of discovery

The author’s son following his own diarassia through the jungles of northern Thailand

Whenever he thought we weren’t looking, Grampa’s gaze would trace the diarassia’s distant path. If we caught him, he’d shrug it off like nothing.

So when Grampa passed and everything hurt, I had to follow it, away from my grief. For days it led me straight, past fields and forests and solitude. Over the mountains that had always been just a smudge on the horizon.

But once past my little world’s boundaries, the diarassia changed.

It was no longer two lines; it became four paths, eight, fifty, thousands, infinity.

I’ll follow them all, even if it takes forever.

For Grampa.

Author’s note: This story was originally published in Centina Pentina, based on that week’s prompt was to write a story based on a made-up word from www.thisworddoesnotexist.com.