The Many Lives of Alice Green

Homesickness is something I have never felt in all my years of travel. Whether it be three days away or three weeks, I could pass from one area to the next with the same suitcase, a capsule wardrobe, comfortable flip-flops, pair of running shoes and enough socks, undergarments and workout wear to fit into a 14 x 6 x 12-inch area soft roller pack. What I miss most is the view of the lake, although other fantastic sights temporarily distract me and encourage my adult attention hyperactivity disorder to ramp up. I cannot attest to how I would feel after three months, as I have not had the chance to be away for that length of time. Though, there are enough oddly painted homes, wildflower covered mounds, wooded paths and unfamiliar expressions on never-before-seen faces that always seem to keep me content and occupied. As usual, each time I return to this place, upon saying “Hi” again to O-H-I-O, I practice grounding to allow me to appreciate the warm soft grass that is often not found far west or south in the country’s landscape. I go back to the morning run and routine graveyard walk, this time intentionally stopping to appreciate the view and the stillness. The ground gives way with a squish each time I step off the uneven gravel path. My bare feet haven’t touched the earth in a while, so I take off my damp running shoes and cotton crew socks, leaving them on the path as I take two steps towards the base of Alice’s gravestone. My toes curl around blades of grass and are dampened by the ground. A quick, cool gust of wind sweeps from my lower back to the base of my skull, lodging me forward two stumbling steps. The ball of my right foot feels a sharp slash that cuts through thick layers of skin. I sense the blood vessel is no longer intact, and in seconds the ground is moist with red drippings. Stepping back, I lower myself onto all fours and then pull my legs, one then the other, into a criss cross applesauce position so that I can look at the underside of my foot. Yes, there’s blood. But there’s something else. Where I cut myself, there is more than wet droplets on the ground. A sharp metal corner barely peeks out of the surface of the mud. My foot must have pushed the ground around it down just enough for the corner to emerge. It is not stone; it is definitely metal. Like a treasure hunter, I work my fingers around the edges and dig deeper. I draw no attention, as there is no person or vehicle in sight to question my gravedigging. After some time and significant dirt under the nails, I loosen the box from its forever home. It appears to be a tackle box that has been beaten down by time but is still sealed and intact. A time capsule perhaps? My chest feels like it is collapsing inward, and I can hear my rapid beating heart. I hold the box in my hands and stare at it. I cannot place any amount of time on how long I sat, feeling the weight of the unknown contained in the rectangular mystery. It’s time. I flipped the silver latch and cautiously lifted the lid. Interesting. My eyes scanned over a camel colored, leather-bound journal with the initials A. G. inscribed on the front and center in a darker brown. I could see that several pages had been torn out and inserted back in. The other pages seemed to be intact. I am tempted to open it and flip right to the end, as if the final page would summarize all I wanted to know. I had done this so many times when picking up a magazine. Instead, I resist the temptation to do so and I carefully untie the leather cord, and steadily and curiously open the front cover.