Time can go by unnoticed in the woods. There are seasons. Trees grow. Trees die. Voices, distant, harmonious, can be carried by the breeze through the brambles, a reminder of life.

But all those are details. They do not chronicle time.

It took seeing my murderer again to realize ten years have come and gone. He was heftier than I remember, his black hair was now stubble. He grew a goatee that tried to hide his age, an imposter of youth.

He lumbered into the small clearing, a long forest green canvas bag, straight and stiff, was balances on one shoulder. It was a tent kit, but something else was clearly inside with the tarp and the poles. As he appeared, those feelings I had for him flooded back, how imposing he was, his strength that encompassed and swallowed all around him.

He was my first, my only, homosexual encounter. And as a 15 year old, confused with raging hormones and sinful emotions, his overwhelming presence allowed me to let go, let him take control.

And in turn, I succumbed to my death.