I was walking alongside the creek to the place where the calm, even flow transcends into the white rushing river. I needed my mind to be focused on anywhere but back home. It was easy to hike down by the creek. Trails were made in the tall grasses by deer and other animals that went out at night under the safety of darkness to drink from the creek. Impressions of hooves and paws littered the soft brown mud - kind of like nature’s own Walk of Fame on Sunset Boulevard. Following those trails, I walked past the old yellow rope swing, its previous vibrant yellow now as dull as the browning leaves. It used to overhang the river, but now it’s wrapped loosely around mangled branches, its frayed ends giving a sense of untrustworthiness.
    But the river - the river is trustworthy. Its flow leads me back to the cabin, where a crockpot of venison stew sits patiently on the crooked counter. The river is frantic but continuous, much like my thoughts, and it’s as if the river sighs back at me when it crashes up against the beaver dams, struggling to break through. Even in the gloomy overcast, the river’s surface looks like the inside of a Helzberg Jeweler, little diamonds reflecting like a million tiny stars. Coming up to the place where the river drops off to look over all of Daggett, or more seemingly all of the Upper Peninsula, I find my way to a hand-dug fire pit. I take a seat upon one of the broken cinder blocks, cracked from the heat of too many fires to count.
    Looking around, taking it all in, my mind starts to clear. I exhale forcefully, making sure to expel any breath of air that may still be clinging onto the idea of “back home.” I’m such a hypocrite for this. The pocket of my red flannel shirt starts to feel heavy, like somebody suddenly changed the pull of gravity on just the left chest pocket. I pull out the Ziploc bag from my pocket and open it - the distinct smell - almost like a skunk had sprayed, but not as harsh - immediately wafting through the light December breeze. This is part of the problem at home. How is this going to help anything?
    I jam my left hand in the back pocket of my Levi’s, pulling out the white lighter, the number 7 written on it in black Sharpie in an ironic attempt at disproving the ridiculous “curse.” Besides, I wasn’t 27 yet anyways. An oak leaf trembles on a branch, much like my hands as I pack the one-hitter, a three inch ceramic tube painted like a cigarette for God knows what reason; it looks nothing like a cigarette. Even mom knew right away. Flicking the lighter, I cup my left hand around the delicate flame, the ceramic heavy between my lips. As I inhale, the oak leaf floats to the ground, now lying calmly on the ground. Ironic.
    My thoughts do a 180 and all of a sudden my mom’s voice is pouring back into my ear.  
    “You’re making the wrong choice,” I hear her say, the words dripping with disappointment. I shifted my gaze over her shoulder, staring at the tea brewing on the stove. The blue flames looked so strange licking the bottom of the black kettle. It started to scream at me, but I heard fingers snap: “How can you want to do this? I don’t know what I’ll do without you…”
    I’d been wanting to move in with my dad for the past few months. My mom acted as if she’d been blindsided by my decision. As if the smoking wasn’t a cry for help. My disenchantment with all she did must not have been obvious enough. But how would she know? We never had conversations, just small talk. There was no way for her to know how I felt. Until now.
    “How do I stress you out?”

…

    The summer after sophomore year, I’d really come to dislike the “big school” feel with all its unknown faces. I wanted to move back - back up north with my dad where I actually knew people, not just memorized names and hoped to associate them with their rightful faces. Most of the time, I just wanted to be alone. I escaped my restless mind within the receding tree line behind my mom’s house, ceramic one-hitter in my pocket and my pen and notebook clutched to my chest. When the wind was no more than a breeze and the sun cast long shadows through the tree line, I’d stay out for hours, alone with my chemically induced thoughts that flowed out onto pages like the smoke that flowed out from my lungs. Mentally, I just wanted to be as far from people as possible.
    However, I physically couldn’t get the distance I wanted. My mom's boyfriend, Jeff, was always over, always occupying a seat at the family dinner table. Always grinning at me with a “hey Jenna” that slithered off his tongue like the snake he was. I don’t know what my mom saw in him. Everything about him was bulls***: the year-round tan that he had, a tan that looked the same shade of leathery orange as the old couches my grandmother used to have; his smile was crooked, unlike his tie that always looked so perfect, like it was just painted on to his suit. I did my best to avoid any confrontation with him. I made it a point to walk right past him and into my room, slamming and over-exaggerating locking the door so he knew I wasn't messing around.
    "Why can't you just try to get along with him? He's not trying to be your dad. He just wants us all to be happy," my mom says through my door. I pretended to not hear her over my music, and a few seconds later I heard her retreat down the hall. I sprang up from my bed and threw the door open.
    "Happy? He wants US to be happy?" I spat, seething. My mom turned to face me.
    "Yes, happy," she declared, staring me straight in the eyes. Furrowing her brows, she said, "You need to move on. Me and your father aren't getting back together." I looked at her ring finger, the tan line from the wedding ring now gone with no symbol of a previous love. "You know, you're so ungrateful," she shot. "You go to such an amazing school and I do so much for you." She said everything so smoothly, like it had been rehearsed. She looked me over, and our eyes locked. I couldn't read her expression. As she turned back to walk away, I snorted in disgust.
    "You think that I'm not happy because of you and dad? I couldn't be happier! I finally don't have to fall asleep listening to you two b**** at each other for the most trivial s***!" I scoffed as I extended my index finger at her. "I'm not happy because of Jeff! He's not right for you, and you can't see that!" At this point I was nearly jumping up and down in anger, trying to make my words stick in her head. The picture frames, the ones of us apple picking and on the cannons at Fort Macon, rattled on the walls as my voice shook the entire hallway. "I don't want to be here when everything falls apart again. Where's my suitcase? I have nothing left to say."
    And so I pushed my way past her, her face twisted, right eye twitching, shoulders tensed. I felt her eyes follow me as I made my way to the basement door. The door groaned as I pulled it open, the damp, musty air heavy in my lungs. I didn't even bother turning the lights on, it only took a few seconds of rummaging to find my bright yellow suitcase. I walked up the stairs resentfully, lugging the empty suitcase up behind me. The wheels kept getting caught on the stairs and when I'd pull them free, they'd slam against my heels. Storming back into my room, not even giving my mom a passing glance, I throw my clothes haphazardly into the suitcase, swearing as I did. Swearing that I wouldn't come back, that I hated him, that things would fall apart...

…

    A loud snap echoes throughout the forest. I jump from my cinder block seat, which crumbles even further after having been pushed off of. Probably just another evergreen that snapped from the weight of snow and ice. The wind was starting to pick up now, throwing ice crystals against my cheeks. It stings a little but it's a sensation that reminds me where I am. I look down at the ceramic one-hitter, blackened at the end and smelling like burning rope. Blowing through the other end, I cleared the ash and began to pack it again. The wind was now coming in gusts and the trees all start to moan as if they were in pain.
    Regaining my bearings, I step towards the river, looking out over the meadow and past the swamp. Almost everything was frozen over, turning the landscape into a sheet of glass, a sense of fragility hovering over the scene. My focus shifts to the cabin, the red brick walls a stark contrast against otherwise grey surroundings. My heavy eyes are drawn to the soft yellow light flooding through the windowpane. I could see my dad's silhouette, even from a distance, taking the lid off the crockpot. I imagined the steam pouring out, filling the whole kitchen with the aroma of a plethora of spices. I should go back. I sigh, slumping against a tree. I feel the cold, rough bark against my back through my flannel as I slide down to sit on the uneven ground. Partially shielded from the howling wind by a weathered boulder, I forcefully blow through the ceramic pipe, ridding the blackened ashes from it. They fall to the ground like black snowflakes, staining the pure white snow by my feet.
    "Jeff, it's three in the morning. Please stop calling me. You've been drinking."
    I pull out the bag again, my hands steadier now. Packing my pipe, I bring it up to my lips with a purpose.
    "Honey, Jeff won't be coming over here anymore."
    A flick of the lighter sends the sweet smoke rushing over my tongue, kissing the back of my throat as it slowly creeps into my lungs.
   "Will he really not be coming over anymore? Because the last two times you said that, he ended up staying the night."
    I feel my body arch back against the tree as I close my eyes. I pull the still-smoking pipe away from my mouth. A rush, first emanating from my chest, then to the tips of my fingers, fills my body with heat and a sense of peace.
    "Don't you dare slam your door on me! I need you right now. I'm really hurting..."
    I open my eyes and let the smoke exit my pursed lips like a ghost, flying up omnipotently towards the sky. Once more I turn my attention towards the cabin, and it now seems to be even further away. My dad's silhouette disappeared within the interior of the cabin. I was just about to stand up until I looked out over the river again. The river that was supposed to lead me back to the cabin now seems endless, like it goes on forever, an infinite path extending into the horizon. I remain sitting, now a statue overlooking the river. I feel my eyes get heavier and my thoughts begin to come in lengthy bursts, thinking about my mom, my dad, my home. Or, rather, which home. They say home is where the heart is, but right now, I just feel heartless. Like I don't belong. Or I don't want to belong.
   One last time I bring the pipe to my lips, silently asking a question I don't necessarily want to know the answer to. What am I going to do? I breathe in, this time letting the smoke inflate my lungs until it burns. The sun was now sunken behind the trees, casting long spindly shadows that looked like my mom's delicate hands reaching out to me. Feeling my body relax, I exhale.