The Edge of the Woods
When I was a child, barely five years old, I was prone to misbehaving, more or less than any other child. It was not my nature to see black and white, but to know everything in between. My mother, a stern woman from an older school of discipline and child rearing, frustrated by my lack of cooperation, would put me into the car at night and drive me to the edge of the woods. I would plead for my life, promising to behave, to be good. She firmly told me that she didn’t want me, but she took me back home. I was terrified. I was not wanted. She tolerated me. Over the years, I’m certain that she loved me, but she had her ultimatum and I tried to subscribe, but I often wondered about the very thing I feared and the what if’s. What would I have found had I stepped out of the car and walked into the woods to live a different life?