Sixty Years, Same Path.
I walked almost two miles home from school every day.
I lived just short of the distance required to ride the bus, and I didn’t have a car. My parents let me use it sometimes, but never for school. My older brother and sister needed it too.
I didn’t have many friends—mostly acquaintances I nodded to in the hallway. Walking home was just something I did alone.
One afternoon, I was waiting at the crosswalk when I noticed a girl standing beside me. I had seen her walking for years, but always on the other side of the street. That day, our paths finally lined up.
“I’ve seen you walking this way for two years,” she said. “My name’s Amy.”
“I’m Doug,” I replied. “I’ve seen you too—on the other side of the street.”
She smiled. “Most of the time I’m behind you. I use you to walk faster. It always feels like you’re racing me.”
We crossed the street together.
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” she asked.
She had sandy blond hair and, in my mind, she was very pretty. She didn’t seem like one of the popular girls, but she seemed kind. We talked about school. I mentioned that I’d seen her in math, just a different period.
“How are limits going for you?” I asked.
“I don’t really get them.”
“It’s like going somewhere without ever getting there,” I said. “You just get really close. I could help you if you want.”
She laughed. “I’m going to be a senior next year.”
“So am I.”
Without warning, she took my hand. She lifted it and pointed at an old scar.
“What happened?”
“I was using a utility knife. It slipped. Fourteen stitches.”
“I remember seeing the bandage,” she said. “That was about a year and a half ago.”
She kept holding my hand as we walked.
McGuffry’s Grill was up ahead, its old sign visible from a distance.
“I’m kind of hungry,” she said. “A burger sounds good, but I don’t have any money.”
“I can get it,” I said. “I work weekends dishwashing.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s fine.”
We each got a super slider and split fries. The burger was good. I usually didn’t eat on the walk home because I didn’t want to spoil my appetite, but that day I didn’t care.
“I’ll pay you back,” she said.
“There’s no need.”
When we finished, she took my hand again and started swinging it high.
“This is great,” she said. “I don’t have many friends. It’s nice to have someone walk with me.”
I liked her. I hadn’t spent much time around girls, and being with her felt easy. I wondered if she might be my girlfriend, but I didn’t ask.
“Have you ever walked the path through the trees?” she asked.
“No. It’s longer.”
She smiled. “There’s a pond. Come on—be adventurous.”
She tugged my arm, swinging it again.
She stopped suddenly and turned to face me. She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Neither did I. Then she smiled, tugged my arm again, and we kept walking.
The path opened into a small pond surrounded by trees. Frogs rested on fallen branches. A turtle sat near the shore. Small fish darted through the water. There was a log just off the path with a perfect view.
She led me there, and we sat.
“This is where I first kissed a boy,” she said. “Eighth grade. I haven’t kissed anyone since.”
“I’ve never kissed anyone,” I said. “Except my mom or aunt on the cheek.”
She put her arm around my shoulder and kissed me.
“There,” she said. “Now you have.”
Then she stood. “Let’s walk.”
I didn’t ask what it meant. I didn’t want to assume.
At the end of the path was an old train trestle crossing a creek. Signs explained that it used to be a brick plant and that the path was once a railroad. I couldn’t believe I’d lived there my whole life and never walked it.
I showed her where I lived.
“I live right behind you,” she said. “Our yards touch at the corner.”
We laughed at how we’d walked the same route for years without meeting.
“Do you want to walk to school tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll come by at seven.”
“How about 7:15?”
I’d always liked being early. That was probably why our paths hadn’t crossed before.
We walked together every day after that, except when it rained or snowed. I bought a car senior year. We went to the same college. We were inseparable.
Sixty years later, we walked the path again. The log was still there. The park looked unchanged.
Amy put her arm around me. “I’ve only kissed two people,” she said. “The first one didn’t matter.”
She kissed me again—slowly this time.
Mist drifted through the trees. The sun was setting above them. We walked home, and she swung my arm high.