The Stile
by David Huddle
A stile is a pair of steps or ladders that is accessible to
pedestrians but generally inaccessible to animals. Stiles
are often found in rural areas or along footpaths and allow
access to a field or other area enclosed by a fence or wall.
Unlike a gate, there is no chance of forgetting to close
it….
–Wikipedia
Between the house of my mother’s childhood
and the one where my father grew up was
a field about the size of a city
block, a fence on both sides, with a gate through
which he had to pass to enter the field,
then a stile over which he had to pass
to leave the field and arrive in her yard.
My brothers and I were specks of cosmic
dust floating far above the thistles, clover,
alfalfa, and wild strawberries that grew
in that field–no bodies, brains, or spirits,
we nevertheless witnessed a young man’s more
and more frequent trips through the gate, across
the field, and over the stile that summer,
both their mothers watching from bedroom windows
that faced each other across the shimmering
heat of June, July, and August. Desire
is the sky, the grass, the smell of cedar,
specks of light shooting through blackness: it knows
no authority. Our mother was fifteen,
compelling as fire seen for the first time,
strong-willed as a young horse. Their mothers knew
better than to say no. My brothers and I kept
our watch, drifting closer each time my father
approached the stile to find her on the porch,
waiting in the wicker rocker. Her half-closed
eyes saw him flying to her. That’s when they
must have felt us waiting out there in time.