Today marked the second year in the forest. I wonder if I’ve been walking in circles…. By a familiar tree I stopped and thought: What am I doing?
I’ve walked aimlessly for a long time… I forget how long. I don’t know where I am, and I have done nothing else for as long as I remember. I have a feeling there was a time I did something with some people, though. Maybe I slept all my memory away….

Since then, I’ve just walked, hoping to find something new. Sometimes I slept on the grass with my arms as my pillow and the sun as my blanket. They were light naps by will not weariness where waking was easy, and when I awoke with dirt on my face and along my arms, I kept walking, and when crossed with a river I’d walk right through, then with soaked clothes I’d wish I would have learned to make a fire. The breeze never seems so cold when you’re dry, but in the end my clothes dry all the same, and I forget.

At that familiar tree, I picked a new direction and walked. The bent nails in the soles of my shoes pressed against me, and dirt hiked up my pants. There will be many more days like this, and nothing will change.

As I walked, I looked around, and everything was the same. Maybe I should just pick a spot and lay down forever, I thought. Like a bear. Hibernation. There never was any reason to walk – I don’t need food or water, and the next thing will come, and nothing will change.

Among the sameness of the things I combed, past a felled tree and through a bush, looking for a good place to rest, I realized where I was. There, in a small clearing, a stack of stones and moss in the form of a building from as long ago as I began to walk. I must have accidentally entered the same forest from back then.

The stones have fallen and weathered and turned into ruin by now. All there was, was the outline of walls and a corner. What was it supposed to be? Last time I was here… I think I remember. It was never meant to be anything in particular. Just a building. Maybe it was more like a stack of stones than a building at first then, anyway. I don’t think there was even a roof on it.

I tiptoed around the stillness greater than the forest and ran my hands across the stone, looking for any markings. The stone was settled by then, smooth and plain, only small grains that fit between the crevices in my fingerprint remain. Even stone doesn’t last.

Around the corner I crept, and there I stopped. A little boy. His back was turned to me, sitting on a stone and carving wood. As the shavings built a pile beneath him, I snuck behind and watched his knife dig and flick away little pieces. The figure looks abstract… I can’t tell what it is.

Maybe I should say something? I haven’t talked to anyone in a while.

           	“Hello,” I said.

His body jerked back, and his knife flung and stuck straight into my foot through my thin shoe and lace. He looked back and saw and scrambled his hands, “Ah-! I- I’m sorry!”

            “It’s fine.” No pain….

As I unstuck the knife and gave it back to him, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

			“Just wood carving. It’s quiet here.”

			“Is it fun?”

			“Not really.”

			“Ah…”

Not fun…? How am I supposed to respond to that? Have I been gone so long that social etiquette is a thing of the past?

            “Well, see you.” He turned away.

           	“Huh, already?”

            “Yeah. School starts soon.”

Oh, I thought the village died out a while ago.

            “School? What for?”

            “I ask the same thing.”

           	“Then why not stay if it means nothing?”

           	“After that I have to feed the chickens, then I must chop the wood to make the fire.”

Seems like a pain….

           	“It’s not that cold.”

           	“Cold enough, and the fire pleasant.” He said as he waded through a bush.

No respect… can’t a kid wait before walking off during a conversation anymore? I wanted to keep talking, even if it had to be with that rude youngin. It felt strange to use my voice again. I forgot I had it.

            “How do you make a fire?” I asked.

He turned and gave me a strange look. “You don’t know how to make a fire?” He asked as if it were common knowledge. “How old are you?”

            “I don’t know. Old.”

He laughed with that childish demeanor, “You’re stupid! How do you not know your age or how to make a fire!?”

Well, it’s a little embarrassing now that I think about how old I am without knowing these things… still, isn’t a young boy supposed to have respect?

            “I’m older than you, you know. You ought to have some respect and decency.”

            “You ought to know these things!” He mocked. “I probably know more than you, hahaheha! Here, I’ll show you how to make a fire.” He looked proud as he offered his help.

I suppose I’ll take it then, but only as a token of decency. It is the adult’s duty, after all.

In the ruins I stood at attention, “First, go find some dry wood and little shavings of tinder.”

“What are you gonna do?”

            “Nothing.” He said plainly.

            “Wouldn’t it be faster if we split up the work? I find one thing, you, the other.”

            “It’s a fire for you, not for me.”

After some bickering, I played along and set out and found some sticks and tinder, then returned with a bundle and nest. I dropped them on the stone, and the boy who sat against the wall looked up from his carving.

            “Alright, what’s next?” I asked.

            “Push your fingernail into the flattest piece of wood.”

I pushed my rough nail in until my finger shook, “It made a dent.”

            “Then cut a notch into it.” He said, turning back to his own work.

I held my palm out to him.

            “What?” He questioned.

            “Knife.”

           	“Use your own.”

            “I don’t have one.”

He raised an eyebrow and looked at me like a liar,  “Well I’m using this one. Go use a rock or something.”

            “Just give me the knife.”

            “If you don’t have one now, you won’t have one later. How will you make a fire then?”

Stupidly forward thinking… just let me be done.

I found a stone with a sharp enough edge and carved a notch, holding the wood down with my foot. I feel like an orangutang playing with these primal tools…. I smashed chunks off to make a divot to the center of the notch as instructed, and looking over, the boy formed some protrusion from the rest of his block of wood.

           	“What are you making?” I ask.

           	“I don’t know.”

           	“It’s not fun and you don’t know what you’re making?”

           	“Yeah.”

Strange kid.

After some more instructions, I took a stick from my bundle, placed it in the notch, and twisted it with the palms of my hands. I went as fast as possible with as much downward force, and the rough bark splintered.

            “Are you stupid? Do you want to hurt yourself on purpose? If I gave you this knife you would be dead by now.” He shook his head. “No common sense….”

Maybe I don’t miss talking to people as much as I thought.

He corrected me, and I tried to tie my shoelace around a bent stick, then admitted to not knowing how to tie a knot. But he looked, and continued carving. I fiddled around with it a little longer then tangled a crude mess, twisting the other stick between the lace. I could’ve sworn the knife cut through my shoelace earlier, though.

As the stick drilled into the notch, smoking black powder appeared, and I took away the stick and moved it to the nest. It’s a strong smell, almost suffocating. I waved the nest into the air, blowing gently, and there in my hands, my fire was born.

I laid it down quickly and stacked a few twigs on it as white smoke billowed into my face, then built it up with bigger sticks.

The fire grew, and the exhaust followed me. White ash choked me and singed my eyes, the air became heavier and warm, and I laid down to avoid it. It’s a little annoying, but in the end, here’s my fire.

            “You’re kind of bad at this.” The boy said, having carved his block into a sleek figure.

            “Yeah.” He’s right. I hurt myself a little and it took me a while.

            “But a fire’s a fire. You’ll get better.”

            “I guess.”

I turned my head, and in his hands, he finished his work. A wooden fish. Simplistic, generic. No particular fish, but it’s comprehensible. He rotated it, inspected, then took a moment to sit there.

It was quiet and still apart from the fire changing direction and ash settling on my face, then he tossed his wooden fish into the fire and the sticks jumped.

            “Why’d you burn your fish?” I asked.

            “I’ll make another. Something else, better.”

            “I don’t think you should throw away your work. I could’ve kept it….”

And as I watched the fire grow, I looked back and he disappeared.

Oh, I realized, staring at the spot he sat. His knife, the shavings, and his work were gone. A ghost.

As the smoke of the fire rose above my head and left me only with the comfort of heat, I put my head against the wall and got to rest by a fire. For the first time I slept warm in a long time, and on the stones from so long ago.

What is it that keeps them around? What is it that makes them disappear, I wondered.

As I slept, I began to remember. I remembered the boy and this place, and the days we spent making it all by ourselves.

As I awoke by a dead fire, I felt drowsy, and left this tomb. For now, it still stands, and I’ll keep walking.