Mom Had More to Tell
Brian Armer
Ruth had agreed to the hike before asking how far it was. This seemed like the sort of detail a sensible person would establish first, but her daughter had sounded so pleased on the phone that Ruth said yes and found her boots afterward. Now, twenty minutes up the trail, she was considering whether “lovely view” was something they might reasonably enjoy from the parking lot.
Claire stopped where the path widened and waited. Ruth reached her, took a drink and apologized. “I used to be quicker than this.” “I’m not timing you, Mom.” Claire said it lightly, but Ruth still glanced up the winding path. Her daughter had a whole Saturday. Ruth did not want to spend it being the reason everything took longer.
They walked on. At the next bend, a stand of tall pines reminded Ruth of the summers she had spent camping with her brothers. “We once pitched a tent on a slope so steep we woke up in a pile against the door.” Claire turned toward her. “You went camping with Uncle Rob?” “Your uncle wasn’t always a man who complains about outdoor chairs.”
Claire laughed and asked who had chosen the campsite. Ruth admitted that she had. Then came the rain, the missing saucepan and the elaborate argument about whether breakfast biscuits could be cooked on a shovel. Ruth found herself explaining all of it, including the part where nobody had thought to clean the shovel first. Claire slowed beside her instead of walking ahead.
On a narrow stretch, Ruth brushed a rough branch and caught a small scrape on the back of her hand. They stopped to clean it and take a quiet moment for care. Claire offered to turn back, but Ruth looked at the broad, easy section ahead and chose to walk a little farther. There was no need to reach the summit. They could decide where to stop together.
At a shady bench, Claire opened the sandwiches. Ruth began another apology, but her daughter shook her head. “I’ve heard Uncle Rob tell stories for years. How have I never heard yours?” Ruth looked down at her sandwich. Somewhere between work, raising Claire and keeping everyone else’s plans moving, she had stopped thinking her own adventures were something anybody was waiting to hear.
“There was the time we got lost looking for a waterfall,” she said. Claire settled back. “How lost?” “Your grandmother described it as a character-building afternoon.” “That sounds very lost.” Ruth laughed. The path could wait. For the first time that morning, she wasn’t measuring how far behind she thought she was.
On the way down, Claire asked whether they could do this again. Ruth looked at her daughter walking beside her, not ahead. “A shorter trail next time?” “Absolutely. But you’re not allowed to shorten the stories.” Ruth reached the car with tired legs, half a sandwich left and several things she still wanted to tell her daughter.
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