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The Pines Remember Me First

by Johnny Packer
Chapter 2
Something called from the treeline last night,
soft as creekwater sliding over stones,
steady as a breath drawn by someone
who remembers me
better than I remember myself.

Didn’t sound like wind.
Didn’t sound like any creature
that walks honest on four legs.
Just a pulse in the dark,
slow,
measured,
patient,
like it had been waitin for me
long before I wandered near.

I stepped off the trail
before I realized my boots had moved.
Grass parted in a narrow line
that didn’t match any track I knew.
Felt familiar though,
the way a forgotten path feels
when your bones remember
what your mind refuses.

Memory cracked open all at once.
A river I never crossed.
A woman humming in a field
I swear I’ve never seen.
A storm turning itself inside out.
Shadows leaning forward
as if listening for my answer.
Too many pieces
of a life I don’t recall living.

Something bright flashed
inside the trees,
not light
but the idea of light,
sharp and cold,
cutting me loose from thought.

Then I woke.

Back on the trail.
Back with my pack.
Back with the morning touching the ridge
as if nothing strange had slipped a hand
through the night.

But the dirt on my cuffs
wasn’t the color of this valley,
and the ache behind my eyes
felt like a door half shut.

Whatever called me
is still waiting in the pines.
I feel it every time I blink,
a slow tug at the edge of the world,
pulling me toward a memory
I must have left behind
in some life
I am not ready
to meet again.