A Memory too Far

FLASH FICTION

Scent is the closest sense tied to memory. Mark believed it, breathing in the crisp forest air. This was the same air he breathed as a child.

Looking back on his camping trips with his father, he realized that memories are more valuable than experiences. They last.

Like the scent of the forest, they last.

He weaved the narrow path through the tall, scrawny pines. They were not so tall when he was a boy. Neither was he. That was the way of things.

His legs remembered a shorter hike, they were younger then, and in that way, stronger.

The path was more obscure now with the overgrowth of the years. But Mark's eyes were not fooled by time.

He remembered clearly the curving brown line that the path made leading to the A-frame cabin that sat in the center of a clearing.

He remembered the way his father looked back, anticipating the look on his face because they had reached their week-end destination.

There it was now, the familiar curve of this thinner path.

Mark's breath deepened. His stride lengthened.

The curve was long. Longer. Longer than a memory, even the scent of one. The path nearly turned back on itself before Mark stopped.

No cabin. Not even a clearing.

As he puzzled it, William caught up, swatting at some imaginary bug- more frustration that reality. "How much farther is it, dad?"

Mark looked back

If he was going to lie, his moment was quickly passing. His hesitation had already changed the expression on William's face.