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My Grandparents' walnut woods

stood beyond the wildflower meadow

that, itself, grew on the west side

of the small creek that bisected

their property.  A crudely built bridge,

just a few old planks nailed together,

gave access across the water to that

other, and more mysterious, side.

Their walnut woods resembled

one in a bad painting of the Pilgrims

making their way on foot to their church,

skirting around their own woods.

At seven years old, I became convinced

that a connection existed between the woods

on my grandparents property and

that other woods in New England

where the Pilgrims had walked.

No one else cared about that.

But my grandparents' woods became

sacrosanct in my mind;

and Thanksgiving at my grandparents'---

with cousins (whom, even then,

I sensed disliked me, an adopted waif;

a fake Coddington at best).

I believed that the walnut woods,

on the far west edge of the property,

held some secret of history,

some artefact left there just for me

by the Pilgrims passing through temporarily.

But I was never allowed to explore them;

not even with parental supervision---

for the thought was "just one of my obsessions,"

that my parents dismissed out of hand.

Quarter of a century passed.

My father's Aunt Jane, the last of

my grandparents' generation, disclosed

that my cousins were fake Coddingtons too;

not descended from my grandfather,

who adopted their mother as his own child.

And my grandparents' homeplace has been

abandoned.  Wildflowers and other trees

have flourished on that side of the creek,

after the two ancient cottages fell.

And the walnut woods continue to thrive

and I cannot bear to venture back there now.

Starward

[jlc]