The other weekend I went home to Folly Lodge and since then I’ve written this.

Songs my father taught me:

One more step along the world I go,
One more step along the world I go,
From the old things to the new,
Keep me travelling along with you.

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My exceedingly old father is an architect, and built our house from two smaller houses that were there before, and a lawn that has gone to moss by now. He emails me now, now and then, and I try to visit when I can. I love him very much. To the west of the garden, which is open and edged by woods, is an open pathway that marks the boundary of our property. Past the pathway are other, separate woods, and last April I stood among their novel roots.

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The boundary path had never been hidden and had

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There are woods around the house my parents built and a lawn that’s gone to moss. I used to live there and I return for weekends when I can. An open pathway marks the western boundary of the property beyond which a man harvests pheasants and trees with his dogs and sons. A slimmer pathway, more of a ditch, bisects the first one and tails off into indistinguishable soil and humus.

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Last April I walked over the pathway and into the

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The steps were queasy with surprise at the suddenness of my venture, and my eyes stuck on intermediate things which tugged them out of kilter, because there was always the risk – a real risk now! – of catching me at trespassing. Still, already, just six feet from my father’s wood these trees were giddy in the broad Spring afternoon and my eyes

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The thing was that it had never occurred to me to cross pathway, in all these years, and it slowed me into

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The clear, soft, bedtime tears all through assembly on the last day of my earliest school were the weight of going on, going one more step along a world, a world that would never return itself to me, as we sang:

You are older than the world can be,
you are younger than the life in me;
ever old and ever new,
keep me traveling along with you.

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