Author: Sandee Gertz

“Why can’t leaves stay alive all year long?” Collin’s favorite place to ask questions was at the dinner table.

         “Well,” I could see the wheels turning in my mother’s head, “for one, when it gets real cold out, the leaves can’t survive the extreme temperatures, so they die,” Collin began to fiddle with his compass for a moment, rather than asking another question. Then he quickly reached for another scoop of green beans, which resulted in his right sleeve drowning in the bowl of gravy that sat in front of him.

I hate compasses.

         Collin Hill was ten years old, and he always carried a compass. It was small, small enough for him to wear around his skinny, pale neck. He claimed that “if Christopher Coloumbus had a compass, then so must I,” – a childish dream, which drove him to his adventures.

         Collin was six when he was given his treasured compass. I remember seeing him put it around his neck for the first time and thinking that he would take it off within a day or two. Collin read geography books and studied atlases for fun. He would write down everything he observed in red or blue covered college ruled notebooks. At night, he would memorize different constellations, and then he would proceed to sleep under an army green tarp, which he had secured between his two favorite trees. They were Maple trees. All the while, his trusty compass stayed securely around his neck. The casing was metal, which made me believe that it would be cold against his chest, but he most often wore it outside of his shirt.

         Collin knew many people, but he didn’t hang out with very many. He thought that they thought that his hobbies were strange, but I think it’s just because he would dip his French fries in mayonnaise. Collin had a habit of drawing faces. He used his compass, which was a perfect circle, and traced an outline for the faces he drew. He never drew his faces in his college ruled notebooks though, he had a sketchbook for those. And he never drew the same face twice.

         As Collin’s older sister, I was able to observe, and suffer through, his many intriguing conspiracies. For as long as I could remember, Collin was the smartest in the house, but not because he had all the answers, but because he asked all the questions. We had lived in an old, red brick house off Poppy Meadow Rd. There were never any Poppies or meadows, in fact we had six acres of dense “wooded freedom”, as Collin called it, behind our house. And behind those six acres, there were thirty-five more acres of towering trees, patchy grassy areas, and little streams, which led to a large creek.

         On one particular Saturday, Collin had double knotted his worn out Merrel hiking boots. They were grey, with black laces, and they had the beginning of a tear on his right pinky toe, exposing his white Fruit of the Loom socks. He threw an extra water bottle into his backpack and then asked me to go with him on his afternoon adventure.

         “I can’t, I’ve got homework to do,” I responded, “and besides, Amy is coming over later,”

         “Whatever,” Collin paused and began to fidget with his compass, turning it over his scrawny fingers. He was contemplating his next words, “I’m going to the creek,”

         “I’ll have to go next time,” I shook my head. Collin sighed and then picked up his backpack off the floor and slung it over his shoulder. His compass, which was four years old at that point, was beginning to show signs of age. There was a dent over the E and a crusty substance had become quite comfortable around the edge of it.

         “Bye, Mom!” I heard Collin yell as the screen door slammed shut behind him.

         “Collin, there’s a storm coming. You better be back before dinner this time!” My mom responded to him. I’m not sure if he heard her. I watched him through the back window as headed toward the tree line. He would always stop before he entered the woods and take a second to kiss his compass. I never understood why he did this, but I never brought it up to him because I didn’t want him to know that I noticed it. But on that day, he didn’t do that. In fact, he didn’t pause at all. He simply walked straight into the woods.

         The storm came rolling into our town within the hour. The sky turned dark gray and the wind became harsh. Collin had been stuck out in storms before, but that storm was different. The leaves were ripped off his favorite Maple trees, and his army green tarp blew away. Collin never made it home that day. The police told us that he was swept away in a flash flood. Authorities argued about where he had been beside the creek, or if he even made it to the creek, before the flood came, but they never knew for sure. Officials blamed the storm, my mother blamed herself, but I blame that stupid compass.

         I live in the city now. No trees. No stars. No sense of direction.