Koloman, Running.(Short Story)

It is just before dusk and the forest is still. I am walking with my nephew Koloman along a trail through the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York. A carpet of fallen leaves muffles our passage--yellow, red and brown. Their colors in the shadowless evening light are luminous, and as we kick through them they breathe out an autumnal aroma of earth and rot. I try to gauge both the waning of the light and the well of Koloman's energy. I want to return home before either fails completely.

Koloman is 6. His head barely reaches my waist, but he plies his legs with great activity--circling around me, climbing onto low rocks, picking up sticks to throw downhill. It's a shame that our friends' retriever is not with us, since the dog's desire to fetch long branches nicely matches Koloman's desire to throw them. As we walk, we speculate on important matters. Are there rattlesnakes among the rocks? Is that a dead branch or the antler of a giant elk? Could we successfully fight off a bear? Koloman is certain we could, and I do not demur.

The trail ascends more steeply. The light has grown noticeably dimmer. Time to turn around. Koloman looks back the way we came and asks, "Can I run down?" I think for a moment. The leaves are a bit slippery. They conceal rocks. There is a chance that he'll lose his footing and take a tumble. The actuary in me points out that I could eliminate a great deal of risk by compelling Koloman to walk in a sensible, sure-footed manner. The romantic in me sympathizes with his desire to fly down the twilit hillside.

Americans of my generation are conditioned to be sensitive, to take account of others and weigh consequences. So I consider that his parents might not allow Koloman to run. Parents have to watch closely over their children, to save them from hurting themselves, to caution them. But I am an uncle; I love at greater remove. Koloman will always turn first to his parents for comfort and protection. They guard and maintain his roots. But every once in a while he will turn to me for encouragement of his wild and beautiful self. I can help him grow wings. "Go ahead," I say.

Koloman takes off, running. He leans forward, almost falling, his legs churning to keep up and feet hitting the ground at crazy angles. I remember the sensation of running downhill at his age. I remember that sense of breathlessness, of suspended danger, the suppressed alarm that at any moment I might ...