The Picnic at Pine Hollow

It was a simple plan. Just a picnic — one afternoon in the woods before summer got away from them.

Jenna had packed everything the night before. Sandwiches, fruit, bug spray, a small first-aid kit, and the carefully labeled pill organizer for her son, Noah. She checked the weather three times. She didn’t want surprises.

Noah had asthma. The kind that made her flinch every time he coughed a little too hard. The kind that came with daily inhalers, emergency ones, and more ER visits than any eight-year-old should have to remember.

But lately, things were better. His new medication was working. He’d been playing more, sleeping through the night. His doctor even said, “Try something active. Let him breathe fresh air.”

So here they were — her, her husband Mark, and Noah, hiking the gentle half-mile trail to Pine Hollow, a grassy clearing near a shallow stream.

“Race you to the next sign!” Noah shouted, and Jenna’s heart jumped as he bolted ahead.

Mark laughed and followed at a jog.

Jenna kept her pace steady, keeping an eye on the trail and the boy who used to wheeze after climbing stairs. Today, he looked strong. His face was flushed, but not pale. His breathing quick, but not strained.

At the clearing, they spread the blanket under a big maple tree. The stream gurgled nearby, and birds chattered overhead. Noah found a stick and started poking at leaves in the water.

Jenna passed around sandwiches, then laid the medicine case next to her son.

“Do I have to?” he groaned.

“You know the answer,” she said gently.

He took it without further argument. That was new, too.

After lunch, they played cards on the blanket and listened to the wind move through the trees. Mark dozed for a bit with his hat pulled over his eyes. Noah found a frog and tried to name it before it leapt away.

Jenna sat back, watching them both. For the first time in a long time, she felt her shoulders relax. No monitors. No beeping machines. Just nature, and a boy with dirt on his knees and a grin that stretched his whole face.

On the hike back, Noah walked beside her, quieter now but content.

“Can we do this again?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Maybe a longer trail next time.”

He beamed.

She knew there would be more hard days. There always were. But this day — this calm, ordinary, golden day — was a reminder: they weren’t just managing a condition. They were still a family living a life.

One picnic at a time.

Another look:

The Day I Beat the Trail

I didn’t think we were actually going. Mom’s always saying “maybe” when I ask about stuff like hikes or camping or playgrounds too far from the car.

But this morning, she packed sandwiches and said, “We’re going to Pine Hollow.”

I said, “Really?”

She smiled — the small kind, like she wasn’t sure either. “Really.”

So we went. Me, Mom, and Dad. Dad carried the picnic blanket and Mom carried “the pack” — the one with my inhalers, pills, and the emergency stuff. I know the routine.

The trail wasn’t long, but it was longer than I’d gone before without my chest tightening. I used to hate that feeling — like someone was squeezing all the air out of me with both hands. But since the new medicine, it’s been better. I don’t tell Mom that, though. I kind of like her watching me too closely sometimes.

The dirt path was soft and smelled like trees. Birds were everywhere, and I saw a squirrel fight. Okay, maybe it was just chasing. Still cool.

I ran a little ahead and yelled, “Race you to the next sign!” Dad actually ran too. He always pretends he’s slower than me. I think sometimes he is.

When we reached Pine Hollow, I forgot all about the pills for a minute. There was a stream, and it made the best sound. I found a frog — small, green, with bulgy eyes. I named him Prince Dennis. He jumped away.

We ate lunch under a huge tree, and the peanut butter sandwich was kind of squished but still good. Then Mom pulled out my medicine case.

I made a face, because I always do, but I didn’t argue. I know why I need it. I just don’t like being the one who has to have something extra.

After I took it, we played cards. I won twice. Dad tried to cheat once — I saw him — but I didn’t say anything.

Lying on the blanket, staring at the sky through the branches, I felt... quiet. Good quiet. Like I could just breathe, and nothing bad was going to happen.

On the walk back, my legs were tired but I wasn’t wheezing. That’s a win.

“Can we do this again?” I asked Mom.

“Of course,” she said.

I believed her.