Summer still lingers in Central Park as the bright sunlight hits the water, making it almost iridescent. The leaves balance on the surface, sparkling as the light wind creates ripples in the otherwise still water. The air is heavy, and I can feel my hair rising with the humidity; while it makes me shift around on the black bench I’m sitting on, everything around me seems undisturbed. The trees sway to the sound of the wind, their wide trunks keeping them grounded. As far as I look out, I see only green, which is unusual considering the typical yellow and red hues of gray birches and Sawtooth Oaks. Perhaps autumn is late this year. The large bushes seem to agree with the trees, their color still a lush green. The humidity gets to be a bit much and I take out a scrunchie, one of the same color as the single black cherry tree that can be seen far past the pond. I would stay seated here, for moving would mean breathing in a different air.

I tilt my head to the other side of the pond, where a small fleck can be seen in the distance. A song sparrow sits atop the golden canopy of a tree, moving its head left and right as if it were looking around for danger. I close my eyes and breathe in. It feels different, different from the dense air of the pond. It’s around the same time of the year, and we’ve just left the park. I’m four years old, and today, it’s just my parents and me. My baby sister is at home with our Nanumoni, or maternal grandma. I turn my head to both sides, looking out for any cars before crossing the street. Baba and Ma are already on the other side, and while they aren’t moving, the longer I wait, the further away they feel. The street seems empty and I start to walk, my feet lightly touching the gravelly black road. After my third step, the piercing sound of a car’s honk goes past my left ear and I feel a slight tug on the back of my shirt. That was a close call. I stay on the sidewalk, waiting for my parents to notice the lack of footsteps behind them. And the bird? Well, it stays perched on the canopy, safe.

My attention shifts to something on the ground: shadows. They move not in zig-zags nor in straight lines, but in curves, snaking around the cracks of the earth. The light sneaks past the leaves on the tree above and makes the small bits of glass shine, looking almost like the Aurora Borealis, Iceland’s famous green sky. Iceland is also known for once being mistaken for the coldest place on Earth. Quite a long time ago, the Vikings wanted the land for themselves. They named it “Iceland,” convincing others to go to “Greenland,” the apparently warmer version of Iceland. But of course, Iceland was the real Greenland, and it could stay hidden, away from the crowd. I now sit on the edge of the black bench, away from the crowd. There are faint footsteps. I’m not alone anymore. And Iceland? Well, it was invaded.

Picking up all my things, I walk away from the place I intended to stay in. There’s a curve in the road ahead, and what looks like a small bridge. As I approach the bridge, however, its arch towers over me and I feel myself shrinking in comparison. It’s as if I were in my own castle, but without all the glamour. I feel my chest relax. I’ve always had bad lungs, ever since I had RPV, or respiratory virus, as a baby. According to my mom, I had the virus at just three months old, and it significantly weakened my lungs. Years of small pink pills did little to nothing to fix the problem. I still take them, but only to make my parents less anxious. They have enough to worry about with my other siblings. I can’t let them worry about me, and if something I do would make them feel better, then why wouldn’t I do it?

I sit down, and as the metal hook of my bag hits the ground, it makes a sound that echoes in the open space under the bridge. This time, there is no light and nothing to distract me from myself. The only thing I can hear is the sound of my own shallow breaths. I pull my knees in against my chest and look up at the bridge. I know that it’s made of white stone, but years of standing has turned it brown. It’s like I’m hiding under the brown bridge, just as I hid under the brown table in my dining room for every family game of hide-n-seek. There is one game that really stands out. Sitting patiently under the table, I make myself as small as possible, which isn’t too difficult for my six-year-old self. I wait for my three-year-old sister to come and find me, which seems like a good idea, but fifteen minutes pass and my knees are still pressed up against my chest. I’m sure she’s still looking. The table, which felt quite big before, now feels like the smallest space I’ve ever been in. She forgot about me. They forgot about me. I now notice the bright green vines on the sides of the bridge. The vines produce oxygen to fill the space with light air, but for some reason, it’s only harder to breathe. The way that the vines curve under the arch also make the openings on either side smaller. There’s only enough room for one of us, and the vines, well, they can’t leave. I pick up my things and walk away from my shrunken castle.

Treading along the edge of the road, I arrive at a fork in the pathway. I could go left or right, which reminds me of the movies where a small difference in someone’s wish changes an entire life. If I go left, I might encounter an army of butterflies at the Conservatory Garden, a place my parents had taken me countless times. If I go right, I might find what I’m looking for. What am I looking for? At this moment, the sky is an everlasting blue and the tall trees frame the road, guiding me forward. I have everything that anyone could ever want from nature, but it isn’t what I want. Thoreau says it best in Walden, or Life in the Woods when he says, “Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth” (Krakauer 117). What’s my truth? Where’s my truth? I don’t want to choose a path, but I turn right, rejecting what I’ve known all my life for an unknown place.

Whispering under my breath, I tell myself: “The further I walk, the closer I’ll be to something that feels more like me. I would find a place where I wouldn’t have to depend on someone else.” However, that would have to wait a few minutes. I’ve been walking for so long that the large grey rock ahead looks strangely comfortable. It overlooks a pond, smaller than the one from before, surrounded by light green trees with long bristles. There’s something almost prophetic about how one of the trees – the biggest of them all – droops into the pond, lightly touching it but never really going in. It might want to stay in the water, and it could stay there, but it would never really be part of the water. All my life, I’ve tried to be a part of my family, but I feel different, like I’m stuck between two worlds: the air and the water, my family and myself. I’m balancing on the surface, trying not to trip. It’s hard to fit in, even in my own family. What if something goes wrong? How can I really let go and be myself when no one else would really understand? I have to hold on to avoid being forgotten yet again. If I fall too far into myself, there would be no coming back. I look over the end of the rock, the reflection showing nothing but my image. In the water, it would be just me, but it’s probably a good idea to stay away from it. I wouldn’t be able to stay on the surface, at least, not like the tree.

Ahead, I see a long winding path that leads to yet another road. It seems empty and I cross over, this time not following anyone or anything other than my instinct. I don’t have to worry about being left behind as no one is responsible for me but myself. Looking up, I see the song sparrow. It’s no longer perched on the canopy, no longer afraid of the infinite sky. Soon, it’s out of my line of sight, just like everything else around me as I follow a sign labeled NORTH WOODS.

In North Woods, there are three steep stone steps leading up to a trail that diverges into two paths. I walk a few steps forward, leaves crunching under my green sneakers. A light chill crawls up my spine, reminding me that autumn has finally arrived. I thought it was quiet before, but here, even the wind could be heard. It blew east, telling me to turn right. This path, colored with deep browns and rich reds, is quite narrow, with only enough room for one person to walk along it. Luckily, there isn’t anyone else around. Wait, there isn’t anyone else around. I hadn’t thought about this before. What if something happens? No one would know. I hear a branch snap behind me. Was it a raccoon? A squirrel? A person? Perhaps being alone wouldn’t be as easy as I thought it would be.

There are more sounds now, each one subtler than the last. I feel my wrist and count 30 beats in 12 seconds. That’s 150 bpm. My breaths are also getting shorter and harder to maintain. I look around and it feels like I’ve been walking forever. Isn’t that the same tree as before? I’ve been walking in circles. Where am I?

I suddenly miss the brown table and the question of whether I had taken my small pink pill. Here, there’s no one to ask me that, or to really ask me anything. Perhaps Tolstoy had really touched on something important in Family Happiness. “He was right in saying that the only certain happiness in life is to live for others...” (Krakauer 169). In North Woods, there’s no one to live for, and without that, there is no real living.

I try to stay in the present by closing my eyes and listening to everything around me. I hear leaves falling from the changing Pin Oaks and American elms, the chirps of song sparrows flying high above the woods, and another sound that I can’t really identify. It seems to be coming from the right, and the sound is familiar, like a softer Niagara Falls, a place I visited recently with my parents. It’s August of 2018. It’s late, but we’ve arrived just in time for the colors to change behind the falls. I lean over to get a better picture of the World Wonder, but I get pulled back before I can even turn on my camera. “Why would you do that? You could’ve fallen,” my dad screams in Bangla. At the moment, I feel only rage. Why can’t they just let me take one picture? They usually forget about me, so why do they have to remember me now? I look back at the trail, crowded but also empty. On the trail, there’s no one to remember me. It seems unusual, but deep inside, I hope that my parents are standing by that smaller waterfall. Now if only I could find it.

Following the sound, I turn left, leaving a distinct branch in front of an elm tree. I wouldn’t get lost again. Walking forward, the sound gets louder and louder until it stops completely. I walk back a few steps and I can hear the sound, but when I step forward, the sound has vanished. I look around to see what’s changed. There’s something different about this part of the trail. It’s a dead end at an elevation, and when I look up, I see both a black flag and an American flag hanging high on a pole. The American flag is typical, but the black flag? What does it mean? Perhaps it’s a tribute to those who died during 9/11. In fact, it wasn’t but a couple weeks ago. And wait, what is the pole attached to? I step behind the red trees and there it is, the Blockhouse.

The Blockhouse is Central Park’s oldest building, and according to Central Park Conservancy, it’s the only remaining fort of the many built in 1814 to defend against the British. The fort, built with a rugged stone structure, was once a safe spot with a mobile cannon. Although it’s now empty and roofless, standing near it, I feel somewhat at peace. It stands high and apart from the rest of the woods, giving it a glorious appearance. It also distracts me from the fact that I am indeed lost. Lost. Right. Well, I’m no longer distracted. I turn away from the Blockhouse, its simplicity and history giving me the temporary ease that I so desired. Now, what about the waterfall?

Walking along the trail, I notice the elm tree branch multiple times. I know that I’m walking in circles, but I continue to do so. The sound is only here, meaning that the waterfall must be here. I have to find it. I have to find my parents. I finally decide to save the little energy I have left and sit down next to my elm tree branch, ignoring the dirt and leaves that stick to my sneakers and pants. I’ve come to the park so many times, but my parents have been here with me each time. My earliest memory with them is crossing the road. What happened at the end of that memory? I cross the road and find them waiting on the other side. They each grab one of my hands and we walk together to the train station. Why didn’t I remember this part before? What about the end of hide- n-seek? After losing hope and thinking that my sister forgot about the game, I fall asleep under the brown table. I then wake up in my dad’s arms as he carries me to my bed and places my orange Mickey Mouse blanket on top of me. Wow. I’ve only been thinking of all the bad things and all the times I thought I was forgotten, but really, it’s always been my parents who have saved me from being forgotten. No matter where I am or who I’m with, they’re always there to rescue me. I don’t have to worry about falling into myself because they keep me balanced on the surface. I don’t have to worry about danger because they’ll always wait for me. I might be dependent on Baba and Ma, but it’s only with them do I ever truly feel safe.

Inspired by Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer