She crouches by the water’s edge, noting the level, the flow, saying a silent prayer of gratitude for the recent, long-awaited rains, and tries not to think of what it will be like in a year when the new dam goes in upstream.

He looks out over the reservoir and studies the small dam and sees in his mind’s eye the new dam, the new lake, so much larger than this one, and he can hardly contain his excitement. He vows yet again to repay those who elected him, the first of his nationality on the Council, and to help his people in every way he can, to grow and prosper in their new town, their new land.

She blinks back tears as she reaches for the door. This is the last time she will see this beloved room, this room where she has spent so many nights, most of the nights of her life, nights of love and comfort, of childbirth and joy, of sickness and grief, of dying and loneliness. No more will she walk these halls to these rooms, adjust a curtain here, straighten a rug there, make the beds, cook the dinners, can the fruits and vegetables, get the children off to school, the man to the barn, the fields. No more animals to feed, no garden to tend. No more. Today she moves on, for only the second time in her life. She leaves this home of her marriage, this home that has been in her husband’s family for generations. But no more. None of the children wanted to farm, and now there’s no living in it, and she cannot pay the taxes. She had no trouble selling and the children will live well, as will she, her daughters assure her. She’s happy only that he didn’t live to see this day, and she knows, God willing, she won’t live to see many more.

After the familiar guard waves her through the gate, she feels the big car automatically shift to a lower gear as she steers up the steep grade and around the tight curves. In a matter of minutes she’s at the top and turning into the brick drive, the maid and gardener appearing instantly to help her out and unload her many purchases. She steps through the cool kitchen to the patio, as she always does when she returns, to look out over the panorama of fairy-tale houses, stunning gardens and smoothly manicured lawns. Her chest swells with pride and her heart with happiness as she thinks back on the long climb she made to get here. As the sun slips out from behind a cloud she shuts the door on the past and smiles toward the future, calculating how many sets of tennis she can play before it’s time to change for cocktails.

He slows the old car for the long hill down, then more for the narrow bridge, and more still for the sharp curve into the gravel road, and wonders yet again what ever possessed those people to fight to preserve this rickety old monstrosity when the County was more than willing to replace it with a decent modern concrete bridge.

There’s just as much traffic but it’s spread out over four lanes now, each direction on its own safe side. She’s traveled this route more times than she can count, every morning and evening for years. She wishes she didn’t have to drive so far to work but there are no jobs for her in the County. The new four-lane has changed everything about her trip and she almost looks forward to it now, listening to music as she rides smoothly along.

He’s been climbing the trees along this river all his young life. He glances to his right, where his favorite one used to be, and sees only the concrete struts that fill the sky above him, big trucks and speeding cars shaking the very air around him as they pound over the bridge. He stops trying to climb, closes his eyes and lets the tears come. He hangs on a thick limb of a gnarled old oak and sees a memory of the days in his childhood, of that proud old sycamore leaning out over the river with kids swinging in it, laughing, splashing into the river. And then he sees the day they cut it down, the day they moved in the huge machines, the day they started pouring tons of concrete. He cries out in pain, and opens his eyes to block out what might come next.

At the end of the driveway he looks to the left, almost instinctively, though he hasn’t gone that way in almost half a century. He can’t go that way anymore—there’s a lake there. He has to drive all the way around to the main road to get to town now. He’s heard all the arguments, about how necessary this lake is, how it’s so important for both counties. But all he can see when he looks at it is how it used to be, what was there before, everything that drowned under all that water.

The wind ruffles the surface and the little waves reflect the bright blue sky and puffy white clouds. He leans back in the seat and loosens his grip on the rod. There’s nothing biting today but it doesn’t really matter to him. It’s enough to just be here, to be floating on the lake, in the stillness, to be alone here with the water, with the wind, the sun and his own thoughts. He doesn’t get out as often as he’d like but when he does it makes up for a lot.



May 22, 2006
© copyright Maggie Wilson