Thirty-Six November 11, 2023
IT’S REMEMbrANCE Day. Elsie hikes the last leg of the trail up to the lookout wearing her hiking gear: shorts over leggings, hiking boots.
A waning crescent moon hangs, barely visible, in the milky sky.
The moon ends its transit through the first house and starts its run through the second on Monday, Elsie’s birthday, as the lunar cycle completes, and the moon moves into its dark phase again.
Tomorrow, Sunday, Bailey will marry Travis in their backyard under that waning moon.
Later today, Elsie will help her sister prep, but this morning, she’s slipped away to return the atlas to the cache.
While hiking keeps her warm, the day is cool.
Clouds hang low above her. This high up the mountain, there’s a skiff of snow on the ground.
She reaches the lookout gasping for breath, her calves aching, but already feels stronger than she did on the last hike with Zander.
Still, she bends over, knuckles on thighs, to recover.
In front of her, there’s the gnarled hand of the cedar, the hollow holding the cache, the steep slope of rubble and rock below.
After taking a swig from her water bottle and wiping the sweat from her face with her sleeve, she swings off her backpack and pulls out The Pocket Atlas of Nostalgia and Longing, opening it to the last page with the title that’s the same as the first: “The First House: Self.”
The heady swirl of déjà vu overwhelms her, and she staggers a little as she arrives at what appears to be the recent past, nearly one month ago.
The snow is gone. Winter hasn’t hit yet.
Somewhere close by, a raven makes the characteristic knock-knock call, the sound of wooden blocks banged together.
There’s the pile of bear scat she stepped over.
And there’s the chocolate bar wrapper that, in a few minutes, an earlier version of herself will pick up and later toss into the garbage can in the parking lot.
But she and Zander haven’t yet arrived at the lookout.
Voices rise from the trail behind her. She hears Zander and herself, at least the self she was a month ago.
She sees Zander’s mustard jacket through the trees, the bob of her space buns.
There isn’t much time, then. Elizabeth had given Elsie clear instructions to put the atlas back as she found it.
Or more precisely, she said that’s what Elsie would do.
Above her, a raven flies so low she can hear the whoosh of its wings flapping.
The air feels crisp and cool on the skin of her face.
The sun shines through a break in the clouds, illuminating a neighbouring mountain, the valley stretching out below.
It’s a beautiful day. She takes a last look back at Zander and herself just setting out on their journey.
For an instant, through the trees, she sees this younger version of herself raise her head in her direction.
She has to go. So, she tosses the open atlas onto the plastic bin, the cache in the crook of the cedar tree.
A breeze picks up, and in the moment before the book closes, she hears two trees chafe against each other in the wind, generating a metallic squeal like a rusty gate swinging shut.