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Description
I'll not lie, she was homely and bored-looking, but from one ilk to another, people loved her. She had a

universally sad-looking exceptionality that made people suffer from within for her, never admitting to such

things or knowing why, after all, as she was a finely cared for and well looked after woman. Mordy Bones

didn't have a man to keep her tended. No, in fact, it was just Mordy who did the tending, and she was all the

better for it. No one else could have cared properly for a woman like Mordy, and she didn't ask anyone to.

She needed no one, and she wanted for nothing. Mordy had a way of wording things that made language

seem smart and indulging. She often claimed that her stories had old words so full of the world they were

bound to spill over into the ocean and find their way back to the dolphins she stole them from. She always

said dolphins when she told it to me because she knew they were my favorite. To anyone else, it was

moths—flutter-winged moths with eager ears and hungry mouths jumping at the chance to taste her honey-

dripped speech again. “When will I have old words like Mordy?” I asked my mother once. “When you have

eyes that have seen them spelled out.” I never asked for Mordy's words though. They weren't mine to take.

Hers to give and hers alone, and that's how she kept them flowing.

“One day, you'll go into the woods, my child. Not because you want to, but because I've told you, you will.

You won't see it that way when it happens, but when it's over, let the redwoods remind you.” Mordy sipped

her tea. The autumn air crept lazily up the winding cobbles that streaked through the gardens and up

through the lawn. “What will I find there?” I asked her all the while.

“Sleep, I hope, for your sake.” And I reminded her I could sleep here. “And all the well you always should.”

The river flowed endlessly at the edge of Mordy's world--the edge of all worlds, if you were to ask me then,

though you wouldn't. I didn't bother to ask when “one day” would come, though perhaps I should have, and

been more prepared for when it did. But life is often something one goes into unprepared for. The things

Mordy told me never related to the woods again. It was clear to me that my going there would simply occur,

whether going was my intention or not, and when the odd-firing age finally fixed itself on my shoulders, I

went--of course, not thinking of Mordy's words. Yet there they were, as always, upon the hour of my return,

dusting themselves off through the outstretched branches of the redwoods, eagerly awaiting me with the

oldest thoughts I know.

“I'm not sure I want to leave,” was the last thing I told my Mother.

“Then stay and make your world here, as it has been made for you these past twenty-six years.” I said I

wasn't sure twenty-six was enough to get me out of Denver, and she told me, of course, “It is not.”

“Then why send me off to the woods?” I asked.

“Because woods are where your future lies, and the truth is what you seek. Go beyond the redwoods and

you might just find it on the other side.”

Maybe there exists some distant version of myself who is not scared of paths unknown. Maybe

somewhere, but not here. Were I to reinvent myself on the other side of the world, perhaps I would not mind

so much the going, the taking away, and the leaving behind. But I wasn't intending a remaking. I was

intending an adventure, and I believe that to be what I have gotten. I knew in my heart, however, that my

mother was wrong—I did not need the thing that all woods have to offer. I couldn’t understand why she

didn’t know that I needed to stay… to make a life I could blame no one but myself for—thank no one but

myself for. Going into the woods would make my life hers—her journey, her destination, her choice in sending

me off. But I sighed and agreed all the same, as children are intended, when bidden, to obey. Mordy’s old

words did not peel through my thoughts out of spite for her, though. They snaked in to comfort me as I went

to fetch my destiny: “The world is full of a curious mystery, little moth. Not all things are put on this earth

to be understood.”

Feet that did not seem my own stretched their cramped toes into the rocky soil between stunted blades of

grass. “Take care as not to lose yourself,” was Mordy's final say, and I remembered it as I began the

walk into the woods. To visit Mordy on a traveling day was a common thing in Denver's smallest province, and

I thought little of going to visit her that morning. She placed a bag of strawberries in my palm, the ones she

grew in her garden. “I thought I was going to find myself,” came my weak retort as I squinted in the

harsh sun. “You are already yourself,” she said genially, “Why search for something you’ve already found?”

“Because Mother thinks I ought to go into the woods,” I told her, “And the woods are for finding and for

leaving behind.”

“And if you go on someone else’s accord, who are you actually finding? And more, who are you

leaving behind?”

I did not tell her what she did not really want to know. “Good luck, my child, in your search for whatever

comes.” I thanked her for the strawberries and she sent me on my way.

Description
I'll not lie, she was homely and bored-looking, but from one ilk to another, people loved her. She had a

universally sad-looking exceptionality that made people suffer from within for her, never admitting to such

things or knowing why, after all, as she was a finely cared for and well looked after woman. Mordy Bones

didn't have a man to keep her tended. No, in fact, it was just Mordy who did the tending, and she was all the

better for it. No one else could have cared properly for a woman like Mordy, and she didn't ask anyone to.

She needed no one, and she wanted for nothing. Mordy had a way of wording things that made language

seem smart and indulging. She often claimed that her stories had old words so full of the world they were

bound to spill over into the ocean and find their way back to the dolphins she stole them from. She always

said dolphins when she told it to me because she knew they were my favorite. To anyone else, it was

moths—flutter-winged moths with eager ears and hungry mouths jumping at the chance to taste her honey-

dripped speech again. “When will I have old words like Mordy?” I asked my mother once. “When you have

eyes that have seen them spelled out.” I never asked for Mordy's words though. They weren't mine to take.

Hers to give and hers alone, and that's how she kept them flowing.

“One day, you'll go into the woods, my child. Not because you want to, but because I've told you, you will.

You won't see it that way when it happens, but when it's over, let the redwoods remind you.” Mordy sipped

her tea. The autumn air crept lazily up the winding cobbles that streaked through the gardens and up

through the lawn. “What will I find there?” I asked her all the while.

“Sleep, I hope, for your sake.” And I reminded her I could sleep here. “And all the well you always should.”

The river flowed endlessly at the edge of Mordy's world--the edge of all worlds, if you were to ask me then,

though you wouldn't. I didn't bother to ask when “one day” would come, though perhaps I should have, and

been more prepared for when it did. But life is often something one goes into unprepared for. The things

Mordy told me never related to the woods again. It was clear to me that my going there would simply occur,

whether going was my intention or not, and when the odd-firing age finally fixed itself on my shoulders, I

went--of course, not thinking of Mordy's words. Yet there they were, as always, upon the hour of my return,

dusting themselves off through the outstretched branches of the redwoods, eagerly awaiting me with the

oldest thoughts I know.

“I'm not sure I want to leave,” was the last thing I told my Mother.

“Then stay and make your world here, as it has been made for you these past twenty-six years.” I said I

wasn't sure twenty-six was enough to get me out of Denver, and she told me, of course, “It is not.”

“Then why send me off to the woods?” I asked.

“Because woods are where your future lies, and the truth is what you seek. Go beyond the redwoods and

you might just find it on the other side.”

Maybe there exists some distant version of myself who is not scared of paths unknown. Maybe

somewhere, but not here. Were I to reinvent myself on the other side of the world, perhaps I would not mind

so much the going, the taking away, and the leaving behind. But I wasn't intending a remaking. I was

intending an adventure, and I believe that to be what I have gotten. I knew in my heart, however, that my

mother was wrong—I did not need the thing that all woods have to offer. I couldn’t understand why she

didn’t know that I needed to stay… to make a life I could blame no one but myself for—thank no one but

myself for. Going into the woods would make my life hers—her journey, her destination, her choice in sending

me off. But I sighed and agreed all the same, as children are intended, when bidden, to obey. Mordy’s old

words did not peel through my thoughts out of spite for her, though. They snaked in to comfort me as I went

to fetch my destiny: “The world is full of a curious mystery, little moth. Not all things are put on this earth

to be understood.”

Feet that did not seem my own stretched their cramped toes into the rocky soil between stunted blades of

grass. “Take care as not to lose yourself,” was Mordy's final say, and I remembered it as I began the

walk into the woods. To visit Mordy on a traveling day was a common thing in Denver's smallest province, and

I thought little of going to visit her that morning. She placed a bag of strawberries in my palm, the ones she

grew in her garden. “I thought I was going to find myself,” came my weak retort as I squinted in the

harsh sun. “You are already yourself,” she said genially, “Why search for something you’ve already found?”

“Because Mother thinks I ought to go into the woods,” I told her, “And the woods are for finding and for

leaving behind.”

“And if you go on someone else’s accord, who are you actually finding? And more, who are you

leaving behind?”

I did not tell her what she did not really want to know. “Good luck, my child, in your search for whatever

comes.” I thanked her for the strawberries and she sent me on my way.