Maybe it was February. The trees high above the trail circled slowly, creaking against a wind we could only hear. Leaves crunching underfoot, we meandered off the trail as we always teach our children to do, silent in the strange warm weather. 

Ice at the edge of the river served as evidence that it was still winter. I placed my hand on the moss and it was dry. Never trust your first impression. I wanted to say that much to my daughter, but only managed a silent smile as I watched her mimic my experiment. 

She stood up and dragged her walking stick behind her, intentionally gouging the earth to see where she’d been. Eight years old and she had only just begun to understand the depth of her breath, the power of her mind.

I wanted that moss to be soft, yet my memory had betrayed me. I kicked over a decayed stump, searching for life in the dark soil beneath it. The sun heated my back as I bent over the dark space I'd created, but still I found nothing. “Lies!” I thought, perhaps out loud. 

But it was only February and I still couldn’t speak. 

© 2016 Sarah Fisher