Forget Me Not

TEN MINUTES LATER MY VOLVO bounces down the overgrown dirt roads that run along the farthest edge of the Martin farm, where the hundreds of acres of sprawling fields start to give way to the thick, green forest. You can tell no one ever really comes back here other than me, because the weeds crawl so far over the road that they skim the sides of my car, a constant reminder to me that we’re safe here.

I pull off into a small nook, where Mother Nature finally got used to my visits and stopped growing. The moment I step out of my car into the fresh air and hear the rushing of the crick in the distance, I feel lighter.

The sound gets louder as I weave my way through the massive trees, gnarled branches and vines twisting together above my head.

I walk for a hundred yards, until the forest opens up to a grassy bank.