On a Trail

Enveloped in a celestial embrace of the cloud-studded sky. Fiction by Swetha Amit

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

I walk on the lush green trail, watching the pearl white egrets in the water plonk on either side. The gurgling sound of water has a soothing effect on my shoulders, bearing the weight of my backpack and the stress of a fifteen-year-old marriage crumbling like the pebbles on the trail. I balance myself lest I slip, and my feet find their way into the marsh water, where the reflections of white clouds appear like illusionary cushions.

However, this accidental landing in the slush would feel adventurous to my forty-five-year-old self, who has wanted to disappear into the depths of the unknown for a while. I’m hidden behind my large group of hikers, navigating this strip of green until they reach the foothills of a mountain on the other side. I’ve longed for this kind of getaway since I heard about putting up tents and gazing at the night sky’s gems from my friends in college. Life’s responsibilities of being the sole breadwinner after my father’s death got in the way. I now have a receding hairline, grey streaks in my stubble, several years of corporate experience, a ten-year-old girl scared of spiders, and a coder wife uninterested in nature expeditions.

I am on the verge of a separation. My head feels light like the floating reflections of the clouds, and yet my heart feels heavy as though laden with a bag of stones. My phone rings. My wife’s name flashes on the screen. Is it about seeing that marriage counselor again? When she suggested this option, I said I needed time to think. She was baffled about my wanting to quit my corporate career and start a travel company.

“It’s too risky,” she exclaimed.

“I have enough savings to bank on,” I retorted.

Now, I tried to make sense of the snippets of words on the phone call.

“Home…understand…date…” Her voice sounded distant and patchy, and the call was cut.

I put the phone on silent mode and let it cradle inside my pocket. The trail is a sparkling green, freshly washed from the light rain the previous week—the perfect spring flush. There is a mix of smells—the dampness of the mud and the morning dew from the green patch wafting into my nostrils. My skin feels rejuvenated with the brush of the gentle breeze. The humming sound of a bee rings in my ears. I watch it hover around me before it moves away.

My wife wonders why I often feel restless whenever we sit on the couch to stream the latest Netflix series or when she asks me to accompany her to family dinners. She does not understand when I tell her I am tired of conversations revolving around children’s class schedules or the fluctuating temperatures in the Bay Area.

“What’s wrong with such conversations?” she raises her eyebrows incredulously.

“It’s just mundane,” I tell her.

She would curl her long black hair around her fingers with a sulky expression.

“Does this mean you don’t want to watch television anymore?”

“There is a world beyond these superficial talks and redundant, overrated flicks,” I sighed. “Besides, I’d like to know more about people’s experiences and their purpose in life.”

“Those can get intense,” she would say and shrug.

Whenever I suggested nature walks, she complained about her knees being too fragile for such rough landscapes. Neither was she benevolent enough to let me hike alone until now, after a massive showdown that made her burst into tears after I pointed out how our holiday getaways were mostly at exotic resorts, fancy dinners, or mall expeditions.

I take a deep breath and trudge on the trail, where I spot little slabs of rocks on the stream, patches of green, like little islands. At one point, I see the sky and water merged into one. I feel like I am enveloped in a celestial embrace of the cloud-studded sky. This journey has just begun, along with a group of strangers. Soon, we will put up our tents near the foothills, light a bonfire, and maybe hear a coyote’s call. I’ll get to gaze at the night sky, count the stars, and try to spot the constellations.

In the meantime, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I can almost hear my wife’s frantic voice asking me to return. I think of her slamming doors and banging the dishwasher in exasperation while my daughter would play video games in her room with the door shut.

My hiking boots squelch on the mushy trail as I watch one of the egrets flap its wings and fly. Not too far. Just to the other end. Another gust of wind blows. Goosebumps prick my skin. My phone continues to vibrate, and I let it ring. I continue on this trail, hoping to reach a point when I can no longer feel the phone churning in my pocket, and see the sky turn into a glorious shade of orange. I wait for the time when this little world is plunged into darkness when all I can hear is the chirrup of crickets and the coyote’s call piercing into the stillness of the night.

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Swetha Amit is an Indian author based in California and an MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco. She has published works across genres in 60-plus journals, including Atticus Review and Toasted Cheese. She has received three Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. Find more at https://swethaamit.com