Choices were made, though not all were wise.
Now my bow hangs over a bookshelf,
string long since loosened.
Where arrows once filled my hands,
are teacups, pastry dough, and
dog-eared novels.
The winters come and go now as they should.
No endless darkness. No frozen roads
swallowing travelers whole.
The young speak of those years
with wonder in their voice.
To them, it is an adventure—
campfires beneath stars,
treasure buried in forgotten places.
I do not tell them how often we were cold, frightened, and lost.
I do not tell them how young we were.
That is perhaps, what I miss most,
the certainty tomorrow would be there.
The bliss in believing.
Sometimes I catch myself
setting an extra cup at the table,
or glancing toward the door
when the bell chimes.
For a heartbeat, I expect to see them—
boots dusted with snow, laughing at a joke.
But none of us can walk together forever.
So I tend the fire. I recommend the books.
I listen to travelers tell their tales.
And when night softly falls over rooftops,
I raise a glass to friends and the foolish courage of youth.