Do You Remember?

Today while sitting on the couch, my brother came into the room, telling me he was planning to go outside and asked if I wanted to come. Thinking that I only had so many hours left of my snowday and it was bound to be cold outside, I snuggled back into my blanket and declined the invitation. My brother nodded and left through the door, but for some reason, after just a moment, I regretted saying no to him. Somehow, and I'm still not certain how, I overcame my selfish teenage-ness and jumped off the couch, quickly pulling on my snow pants and boots and following him out into the chilly winter.

As I stepped outside it was almost like stepping into another lifetime, back when I was eleven and my brother, seven. While walking around the house, I found myself asking him, "Do you remember how we'd tunnel into these bankings? Do you remember how we'd race to be the first down the snow covered slide?" My tone was probably too emotional, but these thoughts were swimming in my brain, each of them more and more important, wanting to be mentioned to prove that they were not forgotten. My brother, who was otherwise occupied with his snowboard, answered automatically, "Yeah, I remember."

As our Italian sister came out to join us, I recalled my favorite stories, letting more of the swimming memories free. The stories all had a strong significance to me, and I felt proud and grateful for my childhood. I walked through the woods remembering every pair of trees, because they had served as doorways into magical make-believe worlds that only my brother and I had found access to. We'd created them all, and parts of my mind wondered how they were faring without us. The thought of our forgotten kingdoms almost made me sad, until I remembered that these lands still in fact exist. After all, if I, an unimaginative and selfish teenager, still find the time to adventure in the snow with my little brother, still write of magical lands existing in my back yard, still believe that there is so much more out there in the world than what we see in front of us, then my forgotten kingdoms must still thrive.

After we'd all come inside and had shed our snow gear in exchange for sweatshirts and blankets, my wise eleven-year-old brother surprised me by turning to me and saying, "I hope I'm not alive to see this place turned into a city."

My response was automatic, immediate, "It won't be." I told him. A place like this has too many memories, too many stories, and I now smile knowing that my brother sees that too. Everyone has their adventures through the woods. We just have to remember them.