Devolution

Night is falling. So is wet snow. We turn onto our street, and my son announces he wants to walk the dog when we get home. For months, I've been wheedling and bribing him to help with this task. And now, on the night my mother is home to help with this, and slush is glopping from the sky, and it's been a wretched day, he wants to walk the dog?

"Yeah! In the far away woods!"

Of course.

This is the season of yes. I have committed to looking up, to paying attention. After a deep breath, I take notice. My very own boy has offered to walk with me. In the rain! At night! I may be tired, but I'm not a fool. I wrangle us both into the house to don rubber boots, grab mittens, leash the dog. It is already dusk, and I have no time to scrounge for either umbrella or flash light, or to remember to pack a snack. It's just us and our restless feet.

"Hop in the stroller, kiddo!" He does, and I entrust him with Fenway's lead. In my flopping wellies, I jog the rattling stroller over a mile of black neighborhood streets, through the intersection, up the cul-de-sac, into the stretch of trees that can carry us into the deeper woods. The capricious weather needles my cheeks and creeps down my neck. My blood rises to meet it, defiant.

We park the stroller upside-down and tramp down the root-veined path. Untethered, all three of us tumble through curtains of bud-tipped shrubs into the forgiving mud. Bug and the mutt take turns surging into the lead. The mist deepens around us. My boy pauses to pick up a clump of wood he claims is coal for keeping us warm.

"It is getting dark," he says to me, stopping to notice scarlet-edged night slipping around the brush. "Can you find your way in the dark, Mommy?"

"Oh, yes, baby. I am right at home in the woods. I can always find my way."

"You're not scared?"

"I love it here." I spread my arms wide. "The forest is wrapping around us, giving us a big hug. The trees keep us safe."

He walks on. "I can hear the raindrops," he tells me. Then he grins. "One just got my lip!"

We twist over the damp bridge and into the creek. Bug is wary at its edge until I remind him he is in galoshes. He stamps right into the water. "Now one-two-three of us are walking in the river!" Fenway is already splashing upstream.

Shoulders squared, the little Shackleton makes his way along the creek, up and over the thickening brush. "Be careful of the prickers, Mommy!" He calls back, not waiting for my response. He scales an eroding wall of loose rock then descends back into the water. Even when the easy bank is within reach, he favors the tangle, the splash, the slip.

Then just like that, it is night. I see it has plopped down in its big easy chair and there is no chance of rousing it. Bug sees only the next eddy, the next swirling bend, his next step. The depth is hard to gauge. He is careful until he is not. Then, down he slips into a smooth, black pool. He sinks quickly, up to the knees. Water snakes with breathtaking suddenness into his boots, down to his bones. Before he has a chance to panic, I swoop in, grab him around the chest, and swing him over to the shore.

The mighty explorer shrinks down to a quiver and a sway. Even in the blackness, I can sense tears pushing back against the rain. A small voice whimpers, "It's really cold."

He leans in. I pour the water from the boots and peel off the socks. I hunch my broad back down, heft the cub on board. Crouched, iced to the marrow, we make our way back downstream. Darkness embraces us. The creek guides my blind feet. Bug burrows in, digging his ice-seared fingers into mama bear's armpits, pressing his cheek against my damp back. The pelt may be thin but it is durable. Thorned bushes bend deep, the knuckles of trees prod me gently along. Low and sure, I make my steady way towards the place where the forest breathes open and spills us over its threshold.

A blanket, mittens, relentless rain. We leave the safe embrace of forest and wind our way back through the strange wildrerness of the neighborhood. Brick and clapboard blink at our passing, uncomprehending. Our faces are clouds of wet fog. Our faces are swallowed by the singular smile of upending routine and shaking out ancient secrets. No one can see what we smuggle from the forest in our naked arms. No one even knows we are here

We have gone native. We are jungle. We are night.