The Lake

We're in daylight savings time. It gets dark early. I've come to the lake for the second time since you died. This time alone.

As I get out of my car, I approach the lake you loved, the lake where you wanted to live. There are teenagers clumped together, a dog tied up at the post, and another boy nearby an older model BMW. One man, middle-aged, feeds swans and ducks.

Yes, the swans. I am finally seeing them and I want to cry for the fact. But... there are too many people here. I take a seat on a large rock near the water's edge. You saw the swans, didn't you? Or did you only see one?

I remember you telling me about it as I stood at your desk the day after you'd been to the lake. We talked about why you only saw one swan, why it was without its mate. I believe this to be true. There are times I think I invent conversation. I remember standing at your desk. I am sure I stood at your desk talking about swans.

The man leaves with his dog once he empties the remnants of the bread bag. Ducks scatter as one swan swims toward me, expectant.

"Hello beautiful. I'm sorry, but I have nothing for you."

This swan looks at me, waits then back-peddles towards its mate, when I do not deliver any food. My eyes travel across the lake to the tree tops where the sun hangs so early in the evening sky. I hear what sounds like raspberries on a babies stomach and see the swans at play. Lovely and surprising. I've never thought of them as playful creatures.

Two teenage girls swing on the swingset, doing most of the talking, while a boy stands by as they try to impress him. You'd be shocked by their conversation. Or maybe you wouldn't.

Somewhere in the distance I hear Canada Geese. I miss you. It's getting cold now. It's getting close to your final days. It grows dark, but I think I can feel you here. I can hardly see my words on this page as I write. I will stop.