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What Once Leaned In

by Johnny Packer
Chapter 2
I went back to the place
where the trees first leaned in.
Same boots.
Same time of night.
Same careful breathing
like the woods might wake if I rushed.

Nothing answered.

The trail stayed a trail.
No soft parting.
No wrong turn pretending to be familiar.
The dirt held its shape
the way dirt does
when it has no intention of remembering you.

I stood there longer than I meant to.
My body kept waiting
for the signal to arrive.
A tightening in the chest.
That low pull behind the eyes.
Muscle memory without a reason to move.

The forest did not acknowledge it.

I tried walking anyway.
Steps slowed on their own,
expecting resistance
that never came.
Every sense stayed sharp,
listening for a voice
that had already decided
I was finished.

That’s the part no one tells you.
Being called is frightening.
Being dismissed is worse.

I realized then
the woods never wanted me back.
They wanted something carried through once.
Whatever it was,
my hands came back empty
and my head came back full.

I left no mark this time.
No dirt that didn’t belong.
No ache behind the eyes.
Just the quiet embarrassment
of a body prepared for wonder
standing in a place
that refused to perform.

Still, when I sleep,
my feet tense
like the path might open again.
They never do.

The woods are done with me.
They taught me what they needed.
Now they let me walk past
like a stranger
who almost mattered.