Emmy woke up on a fine Fall morning, looked out the front porch door at the mountains rolling away at her feet and thought 'a person could get real lost out there if they wanted to.'
Her Daddy's done it, so she knew it was true.
Just a few steps into the forest, up a hill, follow an old indian path to a flat spot where they used to camp before they got run out, and never light a fire in the daytime. There you were, lost. Except you know where you were, and it didn't have to be far into the mountains either. Likely, if you were good at being lost, you could still take a midnight walk to steal a hen from the coop that still stood in what used to be your farmyard. A chicken is good for a few meals, at least.
All the while he was lost, though, Emmy knew where he was. As sneaky as he thought he was, he'd taught her all along how to navigate the mountains and how to lose yourself in them yet find your way home before dark.
He just stayed out after dark once and never made it back home.
His choice.
As the sun set over the farthest ridge and the world turned blue for a moment, the flash happened down on the second ridge from home. A strike on the flint, a hush of tinder glowing, the beginnings of the same fire that happened every night once it started getting cold.
He didn't cook in summer. Corn and beans and tomatoes and such were ripe for the picking, and she always sowed more than the family really needed.
Yep, she knew how lost he was, and it wasn't by geography. He got lost in his own mind, his dreams, his grief, his disappointment, his weariness, and he just left it all behind. Unburdened. Building little fires while his daughter watches, opening the curtains three times fast so she can see him flashing his firelight in the frypan's bottom back three times.
He's not lost, but only she and he know that.
