The other night, my aunt and uncle invited us for dinner and a fire out at the farm. We sat at the picnic table overlooking fields of corn, ate deviled eggs made with the neighbor’s eggs, chili, and homemade apple pie (which made my efforts from the other day very sad in comparison).

At dusk, there was a trip to the garden for pumpkins and squash, followed by a very dimly lit walk through the back woods. This turned into my favorite part of the evening. Our excursion was lead by my aunt and the goal was to see the last possible bits of the sunset on the other side of the woods where it met up again with the cornfields. When we got to the edge, the path had grown over with tall grass, weeds, and tree branches. It looked rather formidable, but she dove in without hesitation. I found myself hesitating and then followed after her, realizing that I was being a total idiot for even considering not seeing what it looked like on the other side. What was I afraid of?

On the other side was a wall of corn, taller than me, and a narrow strip of land between where the woods ended and the field began. The dog raced like crazy up and down it and we took in what we could of the sunset. It was a simple and glorious triumph over the unknown.