I should have gone exploring.
Days run together. Time is furred with sameness. Any moment bright enough to be a crux has reason enough to stay untampered. Looking back, I see so few clear, sharp instants. Otherwise, there's only less of me or more, in denim or laddered hose, permed or gray, waking to darkness or a day half gone. All over and again, in days and nights with no distinguishing marks. Unremarkable. Safe.
Once. Age eleven. I went with my three neighbors to their cousins' farm. They wanted an adventure, and went across the road and over the hill, into the woods and beyond--David and Joan, their two cousins, and even Alan who was six. They asked me and urged me until I said no I don't want to go. Then they shrugged and went, and left me sitting on the porch.
Afraid.
Not of snakes and bugs and dangers. Not afraid of my friends or of strangers. I could not choose to go. Opt for the unknown. Do.
Instead, I sat. Tied in knots and miserably alone.
I should have gone exploring.