Free Angel Eyes by Shannon Dittemore

survive the wind and rain?
    We don’t own horses, never have. But Dad hadn’t cared enough to tear down the stables when he bought the place years ago. In fact, he rarely ventures that far onto our property anymore. He just likes having distance between himself and the neighbors. He says if he wants to run around naked on his own property, he should have the freedom to do it. So with the money Grams left him, he bought a chunk of land southeast of town in case the inclination ever strikes.
    Of course, this is a man who wears two pairs of socks and Timberland boots at all times. He isn’t running naked anywhere. He just wants the option.
    I grab my camera bag from the car and head out. It’s a good five miles to the stables. There’s a magnificent creek about halfway there, and when I was a kid, Dad hung a swing from one of the large oak branches dangling over it. I wonder nostalgically if it’s still there.
    The hike is easy, nothing but flat land and trees the entire way: some barren oaks and some of the evergreen variety. In the spring, tall grasses will grow here, as high as my waist. Green and yellow strands blowing in the wind. But the rain and cold have them cowed. They shrink from the icy white sky, bowing so low the mud claims them.
    I pass through an overgrown apple orchard, snapping several pictures of downed branches and uprooted trees. I even manage to stay quiet enough to capture a doe rooting around the orchard floor looking for apples. The cold air stings my face, but today I ignore it. I get lost in the quest for a great shot, and each time I think I’ve snapped one, I remember Jake’s earlier compliment and press on looking for another.
    I have so many great shots to make up for. Rolls and rolls of them, actually. Silly pictures of our adventures in the city. Of the life I sabotaged with negligence. I don’t let my mind wander too far down that path. When I do, my hands shake and photography becomes impossible. I allow tears only once and quickly regret it. It takes forty-five minutes to regain my composure.
    By midmorning I reach the creek. The shick-shick of my camera’s shutter sends a sparrow flying through the branches of a great red oak. Shouldn’t he have flown south by now?
    Ghosts from my childhood seem to pass across the lens as I snap away. Like the sparrow, the images are out of place, but welcome. I’ve let so many things slip from remembrance. The shed, for instance, that sits not far from the creek bed. It’s a rickety old thing that cozies up to the eastern edge of our property and belongs to whoever’s living in the old Miller place these days. Why Jeb Miller built a shed way out in the middle of nowhere is anyone’s guess—fishing supplies, maybe—but Dad’s particularly fierce about land rights, and though it’s the perfect size for a fort, I was never allowed to play in it.
    I get as close as I dare and take several pictures. The swing is gone, but I snap a shot of the branch it hung from. Like friendship bracelets littering the arm of a junior high girl, the remnants of several different ropes decorate the limb now. Someone else has hung their swings here—maybe many someones. I wonder who’s been on our land and then decide I don’t care. This creek and the missing swing filled hours of childhood history. Everyone deserves memories like that.
    The creek is calf-deep, but I avoid getting wet by crossing it stone by stone, grasping the hanging branches above to steady myself. I continue across the flattened grasses, snapping shots here and there, but the hike’s taking longer than it should. Longer than I remember anyway. When I reach a series of rolling hills, I’m certain. I’ve gotten turned around somehow. I reach into my back pocket, thinking to call Dad, but my pocket’s empty. My cell’s at the house.
    Dang it.
    I scrabble to the top of the nearest hill and look around. Ah! In the distance I see the stables. I must have crossed the creek at the wrong place,