Thorn Gate

Some stories are for entertainment, some are for money, others still are written simply for the sake of writing.  But there are others, those that ring true, even when their past is blurred by many years of trying to forget.  The author chooses to write these stories for a different reason.  Perhaps it is because they want others to know, or because they subconciously do not want to forget.  For me, it is neither.  I write of my past because I can, and for that reason only.  My cries to heaven have long since faded into the cosmos, and I have learned that there is no reason to remember those times, or to tell others about them.  I write because I can, and for that reason only.


                In one’s childhood, there are always places that leave a true and lasting imprint.  Perhaps for you it is a pristine beach, where the waves lap upon the shore rhythmically; or a comfortable old house where Grandma’s cookies are always baking.  My place is not so beautiful, and it does not hold blissful memories of my childhood.  Its bittersweet memories have shaped me, and, whenever I think of them, they affect me profoundly yet again.  I christened the place “Thorn Gate”, and it was a simple escape from my world, a small meadow squeezed between bustling streets and high class neighborhoods. 

         I have not been to visit in so long that I think I have forgotten the place.  Of course, I have not; how can anyone forget something so important?  However, I am going back despite this; there is a past to put behind me.  As I drive into the neighborhood, I look about for an inconspicuous place to park.  I decide to park in one of the cul-de-sacs, even though it will mean a longer walk.  I need the time to prepare myself.

         The houses are all made of brick here, with gardens that are green despite the fact that it is January.  One house still has giant elephant ears growing in its flower beds.  I remember it clearly, and notice that the old Newfoundland dog that used to always sit at the gate is no longer there.  Well, it has been a long time.

         As I continue on my walk, I see that the houses have not changed at all.  They are still standing proudly as if the midday sun shines only for their backdrop.  It does not impress me; I know that these houses, for all their grandeur, are no more contented than the humblest abode.  They try in vain to convince me of their façade as I walk on, finally approaching my destination.

         On my left, a white brick house, two stories in height, with a sloping wooden fence, summons memories of my time there.  I particularly remember the window at the top, where I would sit, unprotected, contemplating my life when leaving was not an option.  However, this house it not where I am headed.  I walk off to the right, between this house and another, and make a beeline for a small opening where the next fence ends at the back of the property.  As I approach, I kick off my shoes, feeling with a wave of nostalgia the rocks as they collide with my bare feet.  I feel no pain, not even when I uphold the years old tradition, grabbing an old vine and pricking my thumb before entering.  A childish feat, perhaps, but to me, that is part of what this place represents.

         Avoiding the barbed wire, I squeeze into the small opening that turns out to be a forgotten trail.  No one has been here since I lived in that white house.  The dark, evergreen branches hang menacingly in front of me, thorns stick to my jeans, and sharp rocks and sticks have overtaken the dirt.  I creep through carefully, recalling all of the times I ran barefoot through here with the rocks slicing me mercilessly, often colliding with the close-fitting, rusted barbed wire when my ankle twisted slightly on a particularly large rock or stump.  I almost feel like whistling loudly, calling to the two friends that always came here whenever I summoned them.  One was my own dog, who cleared our fence to sprint over to my side.  The other was an old, tan pit bull that belonged to someone nearby.  I wonder if he is still alive.  Out of sheer curiosity, I whistle a song I learned from my cockatiel, a peculiar melody that I have always liked and taught to my dogs.  There is nothing, and so as I quit the trail in favor of a tree-enclosed meadow, I sit down to reminisce. 

         This was never a breath-taking place; in fact, it was quite the opposite.  The tall, willowy grass was encroached upon by gnarled evergreens and thorns, and mud tracks from where dogs and a very small number of people had walked helped to make the place unremarkable.  It was also right next to a large storage garage whose only purpose was to be a blot on the landscape.  Now, the mud tracks are gone, but the little field is just as plain as ever.  As I make myself comfortable against a sodden pine, all welfare of my clothing discarded, I notice a small rabbit sprint from a favorite grazing spot.  Now I remember the reason I always chose to come here for meditation.  No, it was not beautiful, but it was peaceful here.  Nature was prevalent, despite the fact that the city encroached upon it more each day.  The foxes, rabbits, birds, and other animals all came here, too, for peace.  This was our sanctuary, but it is mine no more.

         The memories of my serene walks here fade as memories of why I came haunt me.  There is a bitterness that hangs so heavily on me that it has bled onto this place itself.  I find that I can no longer cry, as I sometimes used to do here, but I compensate by twisting my body around and slamming myself angrily into the soft tree that I rested upon.  A branch falls, and the sound it makes is a soft “whoosh” to my ears, followed by a “thwack” as it hits the ground heavily.  The sound reminds me of a guillotine, the way the blade falls, and my throat constricts.  Subconsciously, I hold a hand to my neck, hating the reason I came here, to this dull and peaceful asylum, and stayed for hours on end, yelling at a god that, as far as I was concerned, was either sadistic or nonexistent.  This place is so heavy, it is no wonder no one has come here since me.  As I stand, it seems that the lifeless grass is radiating a black aura, almost as if it soaked up my acrimony and kept it all these years.  I begin to walk away; I have had enough.

         My finger has stopped bleeding from where I pricked it, but more slowly than in the past.  I remember bleeding here many times, my bitter life’s fluid painting the grass I walked upon, and yet, here was where the pain could not come.  I left it outside of the path, where the thorn eagerly drank my sacrifice.  Now I head there again, holding my head high as the uncaring needles whip my skin callously.  With one last glance at the place of my past, I pierce my skin deeply with one of the thorns that cover the entrance.  Stepping out, I close the gate forever.

         As I go on with my life, memories of this place rarely come to my mind.  I have learned to forget what has passed, for the most part.  However, every once in a while, something sparks the memories, and a shadow passes over my face.  My sincere hope is that the place I have come to call “Thorn Gate” will live on in peace, and that I will never have to return.  The bittersweet memories of pain and peace mingle in my mind still, and in that place, they will live forever.