The Guardian Of The Land


My dad has always been the guardian of the land that he and my mother built, by hand their lovely home in the woods. Many of the neighbors nearby have claimed that the area is cursed as many have had suffered tragedy and many have had to move out of their homes. The truth is, the small township was a place of great bloodshed between the Pucketoes Indians and the early settlers. My brothers and I found many arrowheads in the rock quarry behind my parents home to back up the historical facts. For some reason, these spirits that dwell here have accepted my family and have always lived in harmony with us. I remember my very best friend when I was a child, one who the adults called "Imaginary" was a young Native American boy, who rode a spotted pony. I was so jealous because I would have to run alongside him and his beautiful mare, but he always slowed to a pace so that my little legs could keep up. Several years ago my dad was sitting in his tree-stand twenty feet up and over a deep ravine. The stand malfunctioned, and my pop should have fallen to his death but miraculously was caught in a web that lowered him slowly to the ground. He always felt it was several men that held him, but being who he is, he never would elaborate. My dad is in the final days of his life ( maybe even hours), and I've been sleeping on the sofa at my parent's house these past few nights. Last night, I woke up when I remembered that I hadn't drawn the curtains to the wall of windows in the living room. I looked up and felt that there were people pressed up against the glass. Seeing shadows, I crawled from the sofa toward the window and willed my self to look out over the valley below. I saw what appeared to be thousands of lightning bugs, floating near the lawn and drive below. I pressed my nose against the glass until one by one they disappeared. I know that these lights were not Lightening bugs in October. I believe in my heart that these were the spirits of the land coming to bid farewell to their guardian.