Arrival

The drive seemed endless, or at least, that’s how it stretched before them. Only the vast fields of devoted sunflowers and tenacious oilseed plants could momentarily distract the boy’s mind from the weariness. The color yellow exuded a sense of tranquility and serenity, much like his father’s demeanor while driving. The boy’s hand reached out through the window, seeking to unravel the secret of the trees, letting the wind wrap around his fingers in its curious dance.

Their path led to a village, to the boy’s uncle. Though they were acquainted, they hadn’t seen each other in quite a while – a decade since the uncle’s last visit to them, and two since their visit to him. Yet, in that decade, life had unfurled so abundantly that the feeling was akin to being strangers once more. Who was this man? The boy knew his name, and that he loves, in this order: his herd of horses, his vineyards, his ancient stone dwelling, his patch of scallions, and his brother. All else was either acceptable or unacceptable, with no hint of love or hatred.

As the rugged dirt road replaced the smooth asphalt, and oak forests replaced the yellow expanses, a sound finally escaped the father – a sigh as deep as the courtyard well, followed by equally profound and lingering breaths. The green crags, though still distant, ominously reverberated within the boy’s chest. “I mean no harm, mountain,” thought the boy, and this thought soothed the clamor. While ascending one of the hills, the road narrowed, and tall, graceful birch trees took the place of oaks. Amid winding slopes, a mountain stream gently flowed by the road. Memories, tricky things they are, the boy mused, not to be trusted without a doubt. Yet, in his mind’s eye, the image of lazy grass snakes lingered, knowing just when the sun would embrace the rocks nearby. With an upbeat notion that nature thrives in the absence of people, the boy embraced his memory: a stream must lie below, though veiled by the forest’s cloak. The roadside mud conceals a tale of a fox’s swift race, but it leaves us pondering whether village hounds gave chase or if the fox hunted its elusive prey.

The father drove with heightened caution, and when the road began to descend again, he momentarily stopped the car and stepped out. This deciduous forest concealed his birthplace, but all travelers who had reached this point had been rewarded with sights, scents, and sounds that defied easy encapsulation in memory – it meant only one thing: this sight should not be forsaken lightly, and one must bear witness to it time and again to genuinely savor its essence.

“We have arrived,” the father declared after eight hours of silence. The boy knew there was still nearly an hour of driving ahead, yet he shared in his father’s sentiment.

“Arrived,” he echoed, and both returned to the car.