Here, Again
Here, Again I am at the shore of Lake Crystal, looking out over the expanse toward the island on a wintry November day. I can’t get there–the lake is beginning to get slushy, so a boat (if I had one) is not an option. But it’s not frozen, either–walking is also out of the question. Somehow, though, I know I need to get there. I know the water will hold me. I step gingerly out over the edge, and the water holds–like a glassy version of the flat escalators meant to carry weary travelers from one part of the airport to the other, I am slowly carried toward the island. Sometimes, I walk. Most of the way, though, I just watch as the island’s shores get closer and closer. I climb the bank, reach the island’s center. There are remnants of a fire, and I am warmed by its embers. Beside it, my sleeping bag, sitting atop a soft material–like a cloud, but solid. I climb in, wrap the warmth of the sleeping bag around me, securing the hood around my head. And–look!--the trees here (but not o...