I walked with my mother and father into the bush. My father was carrying his trombone in its case.
In about an hour we came to the shore of a small lake.
It was my birthday. I was nine.
Beside the lake, my father took out of his trombone case three things: a knife; a fishing line with a hook; one wooden match.
“You will stay here by yourself until after breakfast tomorrow morning,” he said. My mother stood beside him and took his arm.
“You will cut balsam boughs to make a shelter for yourself. You will build a fire and be sure that it doesn’t go out during the night. You will catch a fish for your supper and another one for your breakfast. There are berries and butternuts and wild garlic around to eat, too.
“We will be ten minutes from here. But you will not know which way. You will not be able to find us.”
I was watching my mother. She had a nice look on her face. Her brown eyes were proud of me. They were holding me. There were green flecks flashing.
“But you can call to us if you are in trouble. You call by blowing a strong note on my trombone. But only take it out of the case if there’s an emergency,” my father said.
My mother had a small smile on her beautiful face. Her head was tilted to one side. There was love all around the shore of that small lake.
“You will be alone,” said my father, “this afternoon, this evening, and all night, which will be the hardest part.”
My mother’s smile got bigger.
“We will be back to get you after breakfast,” she said. Then they both put their arms around me.
And then they kissed me.
And then they walked into the bush and disappeared.