The Worn Path

"Boy, we've sure worn a path over there," my dad said casually of the trodden down grass and hardened earth that cut through his manicured yard to my sister's house next door. The fence between the two houses had been smashed by a fallen tree during Hurricane Ike and never replaced. There he sat in his lawn chair surveying his beloved yard--this nightly ritual a small, simple pleasure for a man working three jobs. I stood and eyed the narrow patch of grass that formed the trail that curved 'round the fence up to her back door.

All summer long we'd traversed that route, borrowing eggs and sugar or sharing meals morning, noon, and night. We'd gone back and forth, looking for kids or one another. "Do you want to go work out?" . . . "Can you keep the baby?" . . . "Do you have chocolate around here?" . . . "Can I borrow your Swiffer . . . hairdryer . . . cookbook . . . and so on." Well before 7:00 a.m., little feet sped across the dew-kissed green to peek in windows, looking for a sympathetic early riser to come play. There were nighttime sojourns over the path as well, arms laden with Blue Bell ice cream, Reese's peanut butter cups, and movies on DVD. Messengers were sent regularly when moms, too busy to cross over, needed advice, aid, or answers. Back and forth, day after day, until quite unexpectedly, the path was formed.

We didn't intend to make that path; it just happened. Isn't that what families do? Sisters do? Wear paths, if not from door to door, then heart to heart. I stared at the path and thought of the younger sister at the end of it and the older one only five minutes beyond that. It happens ever so slowly--the forming of a heart-path. Maybe it begins on a thundery night when solace is found snuggling up with a sister. Or summer days spent outdoors swinging, exploring, and menacing the Iowa countryside Dukes-of-Hazard-style in a beat-up, brown Chevette. Sometimes paths start with a dance in the dress-ups, a pew race, or couch volleyball tournament as mom scurries to safeguard Civil War sconces. Often these paths include mishaps like being stranded in the creek, somersaulting headfirst into fire ants, or getting stuck, Pooh-style, in the snow fort entrance. Fights and uncharitable behavior always accompany the well-worn path, but it's only forged deeper with each "I'm sorry" and "sister song" sung hand in hand.

Soon it's high school in a new city, and two sisters, so different they're almost strangers at home, look for one another in the cafeteria--lonely hearts finding the familiar path. To college with one sister and back home again with the other. And life happens with all of its wild unpredictability. Joys and sorrows, it unfolds around us and on us, but always the path stretching out between us, closing the geographical gaps. Until here I stand in Dad's back yard at one end of the worn path, knowing the satisfaction of a summer spent sharing a yard and sharing our hearts.

As I write, bags are packed and ready for departure. The summer's gone too fast, I'm afraid, but don't worry (I tell myself as much as you), I know the way back. I know that path--the path now etched so deep on the heart I travel it eyes-closed, feet falling on the soft, sure ground of sisterhood. And I know what waits at the end of this worn path . . . It is love. And chocolate.