The scent of antiquity drifted from the shattered ruins of the wooded room. I breathed out deeply as my hand drifted, caressing the beaten fragments of the withered pages. I shuddered as a blotch of ink stained my trembling finger. I sought to remove the marking, but I found no refuge. Permanent, I feared. Altered, I discovered. My finger twitched as I remembered my childhood gleam; the slow twinkle that remains lost in the ever-present universe of my current shallow sight. I remember my mother’s last smile. My father's first dance. The brushes swung in a rhythmic motion across the page. Together we began to write the beginning of our song of praise. I traveled daily to this wooded room. I placed my shoes on the ground, my backpack on the floor, and with great hunger, my eyes devoured the freshly sculpted page. Then one day, as I sought to follow the path of my mother before me, I became lost. Fearful, I ran. The following day, I crept down the corridor in great haste. The wooden walls appeared gray. I struggled to remember the beat of the path my father had laid before me. The memory of the path had disappeared. I only remembered the emotion; the peace of the page. The consumption of the soul. My heels turned and I slowly resigned. Lost in the depth of my mapless mind. 

 

I sigh as I sift through the transcript. I sigh as I think of the years that have washed over my memories. I sigh because these years were not simple. These years were filled with winding roads. These years were consumed by differing walkways that stung my wandering soul. I was entrenched in the enchantment of the semi-darkness of the looming living trees. These were no trees of truth; these were no trees of falsehood. These were trees of greatness; trees of consumption; trees of prevention, and trees of blindness. Their monstrous leaves created an entanglement that blocked the hope radiated from the iridescent stars.

 

Alone I wondered. Alone I remained lost in the vastness of the eve of my stagnant reality. Until one day, I swore I felt the tingle of a hand on my shoulder. I quickly tilted my head in great fear. I saw no shadow of a figure, but I felt the reflection of an everlasting presence. I halted my walk and remained stagnant in my stance. For the first time in years, I stood and reflected. I thought of the past; I thought of my mother’s smile and my father’s dance. I thought of the sheet of parchment that we created; a pact of simplicity. Together we wrote that lost map for our lives. Together we wrote a map of faith, belief, and doctrine. One has to work to remember; one has to struggle to trace the steps of one’s ancestors. Mother, father, sister, and brother may exist as guides in the sky above, but slowly they disappear as the golden shining presence rises and consumes one's sight. This Consumption creates forgetfulness and forgetfulness creates a loss. I had to halt to rid myself of my perceived eternal damnation of a lost soul. I had to halt to feel the remembrance. I had to halt to fathom the subtle embrace on my shoulder by a higher power. You may ask, who is God?  God is the power we choose to remember. God is the remembrance that there is a correct path. God is the path that leads us to our wooden rooms. God is the wooden room that contains the doctrine that brings us peace. God is the peaceful parchment gifted by the smiles and dances of our ancestors. God is the remembrance of the path of antiquity.