A burst of hot, steamy air, fragrant with anise, hit my face as I opened the oven door. I removed the sheet of small cakes, closed the door and adjusted the oven temperature for the roast that was to follow, a fine piece of pork. I carefully scraped the cakes from the baking sheet, placing three on a plate and the rest on a cooling rack. Placing the plate on a tray, I paused for a moment to put the roast in its pan into the oven and set the timer. I filled a glass with milk from the plastic bottle in the refrigerator. Whole milk; she didn't like low fat or skim milk.
Carrying the tray in both hands, I carefully worked through the jumble of living room furniture to the narrow stairway, then ascended to the dim hallway above. At the end of the long hallway was the even dimmer bedroom that was my wife's domain; she never left it. Much warmer than the rest of the house, entering was much like opening the oven had been. The room smelled of medicine, herbal smells and solvent smells. A clutter of bottles, boxes and plastic tubes of medicines covered every available flat surface.
The large figure on the bed manipulated the controls, causing the bed to move to a position in which she was sitting up enough to eat. I placed the tray of goodies on the wheeled support and slid it into place. Without a word she began greedily stuffing the spicy cakes into her mouth, slowing slightly only when two were gone to gulp down a mouthful of milk. Finished, she adjusted the bed once more as I quickly removed the support and tray. Her eyes quickly closed, and I kissed her brow before departing with the tray.
I returned to the kitchen, washed up the dishes and paused. I had some time now, while the roast was cooking. The salad my wife would ignore was ready, as were the potatoes and vegetables. I could work on my books, which I had not touched for weeks, or I could write letters to some friends ... no, I had misplaced my address book and couldn't send the letters. The newspaper was no longer being delivered; perhaps I had forgotten to pay their bill. I thought I had kept up to date on all of my bills, but maybe that one had gotten lost. It didn't matter -- I had a big stack of magazines I never seemed able to read. Perhaps I should start on them.
A flicker of motion caught my attention. A strange man had come into the apartment and crossed the living room, passing the kitchen, disappearing through a door I didn't remember seeing before. Following him, I found myself in a strange room, a library, smelling of leather and wax. I noticed my name, in gold, on the spines of several leather-bound volumes but was unable to make out the titles. The man turned to me as he lit up his pipe, causing the fragrance of walnuts to dominate the other smells. It was a pleasant enough aroma, but I couldn't help wondering how I would get rid of it when he left.
He shouldn't have been smoking. It isn't good for you. Besides, this was my house. He should at least have asked my permission. But he was here without my permission anyway. My wife ate and never exercised but never seemed to change. Maybe smoking would do you no harm here either.
He was tall and thin, a slight graying of his receding hairline indicating he had passed the prime of his life. Dressed in brown slacks, a camel hair coat and a cream turtleneck, he looked confused and uncomfortable as he stared at me. I asked, "Who are you?".
He looked down at my trembling right hand, which I found to be clutching a large knife from the kitchen. He asked, "Are you going to kill me?"
"No, I was working in the kitchen when you came in. I didn't realize until just now that I had picked up one of the knives when I followed you in here. Who are you and why are you here in my house?" I nervously placed the knife on a table beside me, away from the stranger.
He puffed briefly on his pipe before replying, "I'm not sure any more who I am or who I was, but I was given a message to deliver. I'm not sure who I'm supposed to give it to. I don't remember who asked me to deliver it, either, but I've been delivering other messages lately. I do a lot of that, I think. Anyway, the message is: 'Walk in springtime. Follow the daffodils. Trust the pansies.' I don't know what it means."
The room faded away, like waking from a dream, and I found myself standing in the center of a dark plain, my wife standing beside me, her hand in mine. Grunting, she dropped my hand and started off across a smooth, clear part of the plain. I called to her but she didn't look back. Waddling and lumbering, she eventually reached a place along the path that took her down out of my sight. I remained standing where I was as a cool wind whipped leaves and dust past me.
The plain got darker and colder. The sky changed from dim to black, the few stars that appeared quickly disappearing. It seemed to keep getting darker and darker, blacker and blacker. I remembered my roast in the oven. It must be burnt to a crisp by now. There was no point in going back for it. The strange messenger could have it, if he wanted it. It didn't matter.
After what seemed like forever, the darkness disappeared, replaced with the former dimness. Far off I saw a small patch of green, a golden spark within it. I set off across the plain, through the nettles, brambles, thorny bushes and vines that seem determined to divert or stop me, towards that golden spark. Deepest night replaced dim day several times as I struggled toward my goal, finally arriving in a patch of green that smelled of crushed mint. A solitary daffodil stood guard at the top of a path, lined with springtime flowers, that led downwards past another daffodil. Pleasant aromas accompanied me down that path, from daffodil to daffodil, to a meadow sparkling with dew in what appeared to be the pale glow of early morning sun despite the sun having shined for the many hours it took me to reach that place.
People began to drift into the meadow from the surrounding trees. First was my Aunt Tillie, seeming young despite having been an old woman the last time I had seen her, shortly before her death. My brother Ben was there. He told me my mother and father had been there recently and would probably return soon. Aunts and uncles, cousins, friends all clustered round, all trying to invite me to visit with them in the little cottages they lived in within the surrounding forest. As we moved towards the edge of the meadow, a spark of gold caught my eye at the far end of that flowered plain. I started toward it, abandoning the family and friends of several lifetimes. A solitary "Good luck!" followed me.
Bees zipped past me, zinging from flower to flower down the new path of green springness. Butterflies fluttered by, multicolored motes bouncing and fluttering to new blossoms filled with ever richer nectars to sip. Birdsong surrounded me, almost smothering in its intensity and variety. Fragrances strong enough to lift me and wash me away, a nearly visible fog of smells, tried to seduce me from my way, to pause and enjoy. The whole place began to glow golden, the infrequent daffodils seeming dim by comparison.
The path became the street of a golden village. People appeared, fine specimens of humanity, glowing goldenly in the bright sun. Looking down, I discovered myself to have been turned to gold, a fine, muscular body carrying me along. A party overflowed from a courtyard into the street. A man with a tray of meats approached, offering me my choice of his fragrant morsels. I raised my hand to indicate my refusal. Another man had a tray of drinks: champagnes in tall glasses, golden wines in tall stemmed cups, cool water in golden goblets, all tempting and delightful to the eye. Again I refused with a gesture. A third man's offered tray had mugs of coffee and hot chocolate and cups of tea. I passed them by.
I passed small shops. Fine silks were offered me from one, finished clothing from another, shoes from a third. A dancing group rushed out from their patio to surround me. Golden women offered themselves, thrusting their bodies against mine or taking my arm to invite me away from my path. But it seemed more important to get to the next daffodil, no matter how dim in comparison, so I shook them off and continued on my way.
A group of men and women, all dressed in red coats and small black hats, rode out of a side street on palomino horses, leading an additional animal. Their leader said, "Come join us as we chase the red fox and the gray fox through the green hills. And if we find no foxes, we will simply race." I shook my head and walked on. Other groups offered to take me hunting for pheasant in grain fields nearby or fishing in the rushing river. I refused them all.
As I walked I became smaller and younger. A group of youths passed, carrying a collection of jars and bottles, crying out, "The frog eggs are hatching. We are going to get tadpoles. Will you join us?"
I passed on, now approaching the limit of the village. On its border, a small waif ran up and thrust a coin into my hand. "Keep it for luck," she said before running off. I looked at the copper disk. One side had a rose -- earthly passion bound in heavenly perfection, a paradox with thorns for the unwary -- and the other side a unicorn, the worldly warrior whose sword brought youth and life, to be conquered only by innocence and virgin purity. The word "Paradise" was inscribed below the rose. It jarred my memory. I had passed this way before, perhaps many times.
I knew that if I kept the smallest trinket I would be lost. I would turn back, turn aside, wander in an endless maze of streets and avenues, going from party to concert to hunt to sporting event, endlessly celebrating, until I found a spacious apartment high up in one of the tallest, most magnificent buildings in the magnificent city I would find. I would visit other cities, emerald or ruby or jade or silver their theme colors. I would return to my apartment more and more often, to write of travels made or imagined, where I would stay for longer and longer times until I blocked the magnificent view with closed curtains and remained forever, with the excuse of having to care for some plant or pet or person. It was not my destiny, it was my nature.
Delightful music started up behind me as I wavered. The smell of frying sausage surrounded me. I almost turned, but stopped, dropped the token and left the village. As I did, the golden hue of my skin faded to its normal coloration. But now I was a child. As I left the golden village I wondered if I had escaped its trap or had walked into some other trap, far more subtle. Would I still walk this way again ... and yet again?
When I finally reached a dark brown bluff that blocked my way I found the last daffodil, small, young, barely able to produce one immature bloom. Bewildered, I looked around. On a plain dirt trail leading up and across the hillside was a cluster of pansies, their innocent faces pleading with me to take that trail, which led to a small crack in the hillside, a cavern inches wide and infinitely deep, a small spark of gold at its heart.
As a wisp of smoke, I entered the crack in the hillside, drifting towards that golden glow, then into it, then of it. All was golden light, movement was impossible. The glow diminished, became dim. Large hands took me. There was a jolt. I screamed briefly, then quieted. Hands wiped something from my body, wiped something else over my eyes. I caught a glimpse of flowers, daffodils wrapped in crystal paper waiting for a vase to be prepared and a pot of pansies, as I was wrapped in a blue and white blanket. Then flowered green arms ending in latex gloves delivered me to the tired, sweaty woman on the bed. The smells of hospital solvents, sweat, blood and fear gave way to a floral perfume, mostly violets, accompanied by smells of my new mother's body, smells of pride and hope and love as she held me to her breast for the first time. Warmed, we began bonding.
My long journey was ended.
My new journey was started. Again.