Mom always tells stories about how big an imagination I had as a child. Her favorite story – the one she always chose to tell at parties when little kids came up – is the story of the little boy I met in the woods.

For as long as I can remember, we have visited the cabin in the woods around early October. My mother loves camping. I don't know what it is that she enjoys. I like the outdoors, but I don't know why we go during October, when the air is crisp and cold. Perhaps it's the color the leaves turn. I have no idea.

Yearly, we'd go. Dad always stayed behind, even when he was alive. Or, that's what Mom says. I can't remember him. He died when I was four. Apparently I hadn't taken the death well. Mom said that I was despondent, and I pretended to talk to people who weren't there.

But, anyway. Mom, as always, started the story like this; "Gracie always had the biggest imagination as a child!" Even though I know I didn't imagine this story. Who would listen to a child who claimed that the story that would follow was true?

I would usually protest before she got started. "Mom, not this story again," I said, and she smirked before beginning.

"Well, we were out at the cabin in the mountains. As always, it was October, so it was a little chilly…" Her version isn't correct, and she always wanders horribly through the story. It's a short one, really.

Mom sent me outside to get some wood. I was six at the time, and so I was curious about what laid beyond the cabin. Mom always said that if I were to go anywhere that I had to stay nearby to the cabin or go with her. And we never wandered off the paths. For some reason or another (I can't quite remember the specifics) I wandered deeper into the woods.

I loved it. At least, I loved it until I got lost. Once again, I was six. So how was I supposed to know where to go? Panicking, I plunked myself down on the ground and started to sob. I wanted Mom to find me, but she didn't have a clue as to where I went.

Mom says that she was freaking out back at the cabin. She went looking for me, but she didn't find me in the end. Her friends all shake their heads and say that I was quite the naughty child to worry my mother like that. I can't help but to think of them as nitwits. They don't leave room for children to be stupid.

Regardless of which, I was crying. Mom was looking for me. But someone else found me there in the woods. I can't remember exactly what he looked like. I just remember that he was older than I was by a few years, and he had golden hair. This boy found me, and knelt before me. Somehow, he calmed me down. He took my hand, and lead me out of the forest and back to the cabin. I remember that hand because it was soft, and held my hand gently. I remember his pull was insistent, but not harsh.

This is where things get rather fuzzy. I think I hugged him. I'm not sure. I just remember him handing me a rose and whispering into my ear that when it bloomed, he would return. I think I fell asleep. Mom found me face first in the snow, and she carried me inside. Worried as she was, she was amused to hear my telling of the tale.

She didn't believe me. Not at all. Not even when I showed her the rose that suddenly had appeared in my room. For years I think I had a crush on the image of that boy. Until the image faded and nothing was left of the story but the words, vague memories, and the rose. I released that little crush, and allowed myself to forget.

When I was about ten or so, Mom tried to throw the rose away. She said it was black and withered. I looked at it, and I saw a bright red rose, it's petals as soft as the day it had come to me. It still hadn't bloomed. But she clearly didn't see what I saw. I promised I'd get rid of it, but I remember hiding it. But, as is the nature of many things a ten year old hides, I forgot where I had put it by next year. I was horribly depressed, but I quickly forgot about the rose.

But back to the party. Mother had finished her story, and I rolled my eyes. I was eighteen now, and everyone said that I was quite mature for my age. They always said that I was too serious for my own good. Of course, they also said that I was far too often distracted. Shaking my head at my mother, my fiery red hair danced around my face. I had inherited my mother's looks; thick curly red hair, freckles, pale skin and willowy figure. She said, though, that I had my father's clear blue eyes. I'd seen pictures, and I didn't see it. Ah well.

"Mom," I said almost as if to scold her, "It's just something I did when I was a dumb kid. I wish you would stop telling it…" It was the perfect teenage answer and the guests smiled at my feigned embarrassment.

"Christina!" a guest called to Mom. "Do you want to go to dinner with us next weekend?" I could see my mother pause. I knew what next weekend was. She had better remember what next weekend was!

"Sorry, Tory, but that is the weekend that my daughter and I go camping. Perhaps next weekend?" I let out a sigh of relief. Mom occasionally prioritized business and connections over things that I said were important. Although I understood why, it hurt me when she missed a dance recital or some such because she double booked.

The party ended soon after that, thank god. Many of her guests said to Mom, "Your daughter, Grace, is really quite charming." I'd be flattered if I hadn't heard it a hundred billion times before. Sighing, I headed upstairs. Our house was nice; a large double story house that she could now afford on her salary as a divorce lawyer. The stories she came home from work with were occasionally amusing, but not quite worth it.

"Good night, Mom," I called unenthusiastically down the stairs. Heading towards my room, Mom called me back.

Staring at me, she gave me a warm teary smile. Oh dear. I could see a 'you're so beautiful, thank you for putting up with me' speech coming. But Mom did no such thing. She just said, "Remember, we leave early tomorrow for the cabin. Are you all packed?" I nodded, and her smile widened. "Good. See you tomorrow, Gracie."

As she headed off to clean up the kitchen and living room, I headed to bed.