The morning sunlight dances between shadows on the path ahead of me, a happy yellow glistening on the brown earth trail. I am surrounded by ancient trees that tower high, up to the clouds, it seems. These pine sentinels guard the trail, soldiers of the forest, companions along the path. With hundreds of trees to my left and to my right, how could I be lonely on this solitary hike?
Peacefulness covers the land like a down comforter, so silent that I can hear my breath, my footsteps in the fall leaves, and nothing else until the drum of a woodpecker interrupts with a rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Then two blue jays begin a shouting match, and the forest seems to come alive with noise. A wren chatters off in the distance; its cheerfulness lightens my step. The chitter of a family of chickadees echoes not far off, and the call of a wood thrush adorns the air. Something familiar is here.
As I tread on, the smell of the forest envelops me. A vaguely sweet fragrance of decaying leaves on the ground mixes with the scent of pine. It is October, but the smell is Christmas, a thought that strikes me as bittersweet, and I feel a pang of sadness. A little shiver runs down my arms, but I shake it off like a cobweb and amble forward.
Through the shade, I continue my path, kicking my boots through fallen leaves until I realize a bootlace has come undone. Stopping to bend on the soft forest floor, I kneel beside the most gigantic pine tree I have ever seen. What a strange photo this would make, I muse. Grown woman by herself, bowing below a skyscraper tree, hair escaping from under a bandana. “Wild Woman Praying to Conifer” could be the title.
Beside my boot, a single brown pinecone catches my eye. Funny how there’s only one under such a huge tree. I study it amid the pine needles. Simple. Unbroken. I’ve seen hundreds—probably thousands—of pinecones, but this one draws me to it. Round and perfectly curved, well preserved; it must be newly fallen. I reach for it, feel its prickly edges, and hold it to my nose. The perfume intoxicates me, and in one whiff, takes me far away, to when I was 6 the last Christmas before my father died.
A somber mood falls over me as I stand holding that pinecone, and I remember Dad. He had wanted the holiday to be special, knowing it likely would be his last. Despite his weakness from the cancer and the monster medicines he took, he insisted that we go to the woods just outside of Maysville. A family friend owned the land and always invited us to pick a good tree. Dad wore a flannel shirt that swallowed his shriveled body; Mom wore an anguished expression on her tired face. My brother, older and wiser than I, carried an air of independence as we walked in the chill from the car to the forest’s edge that day. Johnny got to hold the saw—he was 11. I didn’t have anything to carry and fussed about it. I whined unreasonably, “I’m not a baby.”
My eyes were red with tears; my fists were tiny balls of unexplained anger. Dad, trying to appease my tantrum and preserve the sanctity of the day, bent down and picked up a round pinecone and turned to me. “Here, Missy, carry this for me. It’s perfect. Let’s put it on the mantel for decoration.”
I swelled with importance at the gesture and held it like Eucharist as my mother and brother took turns sawing the trunk of our chosen tree.
A pinecone—that pinecone—was a bridge between my dying father and me that day. Maybe it was his way of telling me I mattered. When we got home, tree in tow, we were all worn thin, but Dad was fully exhausted. Johnny and Mom struggled to carry in the evergreen that had been secured to the roof of the car. Dad could only hobble in, apologizing needlessly for not helping. But before he lay down to rest, he crossed the living room with heroic effort and ceremoniously placed the pinecone on the mantel over the empty fireplace. He smiled at me and whispered, “Missy, that’s a perfect pinecone. You did a fine job of getting it home safely.”
Less than two months later, Dad was gone. Everything would change. In years, there would be a stepfather, a new home, more than a dozen holidays with an artificial tree.
The pinecone was tossed out along with the dry, brittle fir that January, only a memory now. But here, in this forest splashed with sunlight and shade, I have it in my hand again, and I know my father is with me. The pinecone that was a connection, a link between my father and me, is a bridge still.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the wind as I look up at the tree’s trunk and branches. My words sweep away with the breeze. “I miss you, Dad.”
I breathe a sigh, then head up the trail toward my car, toward my life outside the woods.
Gently, firmly, I carry that perfect pinecone. It is coming home with me.
2024 Winning Submission for Penned: Fiction