I drove through the darkness, the headlights cutting through the gloom and never ending fields, and I felt like I was back at our house when I was small. I was heading down the tunnel of our hallway in the darkness, the carpet like moss beneath my feet, silently feeling my way towards the light of my brothers’ room, only to crack open the door to a world of blanket tents, flashlights, books, and fairy laughter. It was the Wood between the Worlds, our place of shelter.
Both my brothers are writers. My brother Jack is poet, and my brother Warnie is a non-fiction writer and getting his Masters in Non-Fiction writing right now. My brothers especially have shaped my artistic career, and have always been there for a helpful opinion, or a hug of support when I’m not sure what to do.
The three of us have always been very close, something I didn’t realize was unusual until I talked to other families. We were always together as children, teenagers and even adults. Our visits, however brief, are filled with talk, stories and laughter. I talk to my brothers at least once a week, if not more. They are my best friends, my advisers, my mentors, my brain stormers. I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am without them.
I pulled into my brother’s driveway, the scent of rain heavy on the streets, and walked up the sidewalk to his doorway. Light poured into the darkness, as the door swung open and I stepped into my brother’s embrace and breathed in the scent of earth and pipe tobacco on his skin. I had made it to my Wood between the Worlds.