Saturday, September 8, 2012


The night was black. The clouds blocked the moon. The brook, fat with the spring melt, flowed over an escarpment south of the house crashing down  before flowing out into the lake. The lake itself was a black field beneath the house. It was as quiet as the clouds. I took the stairs down to the shore, and then glanced back up at the house. The lights shining forth from its windows, spoke of life within. There would be conversation there, questions shouted from room to room, toys scattered on the wood floor, laughter, and food. There would also be the photos staring down from the walls, the mantle, and the tops of dressers. Those photos, captured in a moment in time, with the spark still in the eyes like a light from a window and the mind behind them filled with the stuff of life, stare unceasingly on a scene that they once occupied bodily. The stairs once carried their weight. The walls once echoed with their laughter. Their eyes once took in the view, sweeping north to south, looking for approaching storms and boats. They pulled chairs up in front of the fireplace to talk. And they worried about their children when they went exploring in the woods. The stuff of life.

I wondered what they would think of me, those who came before.

As I paddled out onto the black lake I wondered if one day a photo of me would stare down on a generation yet to come. I wondered what I would think of them. I hope they put me in the living room.

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