By Norah Miller
When I was a little girl I loved adventures. My older sister would take me through the paths of the forest, leading me to waterfalls and wildflower patches. We would wander all day through those pine needle roads. By the time the sun was setting my body would be aching for a spot in front of our fireplace and a bowl of hot soup.
That was before I grew up and learned that there were more important things to do than run around the woods all day. That was before my sister was arranged to marry that old farmer. Before her new husband taught her how to behave like a proper wife. Before my father tried to marry me off to the son of one of his friends.
The boy I was set to marry wasn’t awful looking. In fact, I’m sure any other girl would be quite happy with the match. But he was very male. How do you explain to your controlling father that you’d much rather spend the rest of your life with the baker’s daughter than some hairy muscle man?
The quick answer is: you don’t.
You run. Because as much as I love my little town and that girl with golden eyes and brown sugar skin, I’d rather die than marry that boy. So I’m leaving. Walking back down those pathways that remind me of life before worry and into the forest where I can follow them all the way to the big city where everybody’s too busy with their own problems to care about what I do with my life.
Before I leave I turn around and look through the slight clearing of trees to my lakeside village a bit away. I turn and walk away for the last time, content.
When I was a little girl I loved adventures. My older sister would take me through the paths of the forest, leading me to waterfalls and wildflower patches. We would wander all day through those pine needle roads. By the time the sun was setting my body would be aching for a spot in front of our fireplace and a bowl of hot soup.
That was before I grew up and learned that there were more important things to do than run around the woods all day. That was before my sister was arranged to marry that old farmer. Before her new husband taught her how to behave like a proper wife. Before my father tried to marry me off to the son of one of his friends.
The boy I was set to marry wasn’t awful looking. In fact, I’m sure any other girl would be quite happy with the match. But he was very male. How do you explain to your controlling father that you’d much rather spend the rest of your life with the baker’s daughter than some hairy muscle man?
The quick answer is: you don’t.
You run. Because as much as I love my little town and that girl with golden eyes and brown sugar skin, I’d rather die than marry that boy. So I’m leaving. Walking back down those pathways that remind me of life before worry and into the forest where I can follow them all the way to the big city where everybody’s too busy with their own problems to care about what I do with my life.
Before I leave I turn around and look through the slight clearing of trees to my lakeside village a bit away. I turn and walk away for the last time, content.
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