Reflections

I always choose to go when it's dark. The water's reflection is best at night. And no one's around to pollute the cool breeze, for no one knows about my silence out here. The trees sway and they sway for me; I relate their protection to hiding away in my room as a child during thunderstorms, scared and hoping that lightning will strike nothing but the air. But the rain, violent and rapping and tapping, had me burying my head in anything soft and thick. Suddenly a car would drive by the house, sizzling through the water in the street. If the driver could be so brave as to belittle the storm's fantastic danger, then all would be okay for me. And it was. But now I'm older.

So the trees sway their leaves and they sway them for me. No one is ever alone. Everything tangible will accept my words, if only as mere vibrations that will diminish as quickly as I make them. An old weeping willow looms over me. I think of it as the room from my childhood. The tree is something under which I can hide and feel safe. My trees give me comfort. They surround this body of water of mine, tall and proud, but not high enough to block the moon. The water looks sad when the moon cannot visit. And I try not to think about how lonesome it would be if I never came. It would never turn away from me, except as drops of rain containing my lies evaporating to the sky and falling over Elsewhere. I know; I tell lies to the air of the night; to the sleeping trees; to the undisturbed surface of the water. Someone once knew about this retreat and its tranquility, but it's into these forgotten waters I throw my lies. I'm known here as someone who I am not. We all need to dream.


It's amazing to wake up every morning next to her in a room bathing in sunlight, and to roll over and fall asleep again. Then an hour later she's tugging at me to wake up, but I'm stubborn and she loves it. I feel her get out of bed and shuffle about the room before leaving. The smell of bacon soon wafts into the room, putting a smile upon my face before I can open my eyes.

I get out of bed and stretch like a bear before stumbling down the stairs. I stop midway to peer over the railing and into the kitchen to discover her, so lovely at any time of day, standing by the sink in just her panties and one of my T-shirts. She hums aimlessly, softly, sweetly, while I sneak silently upon her. A surprise hug from behind. A tight squeeze. A gentle kiss to her soft neck and the resulting goose-bumps. Then breakfast by the bay window.

She leaves for work after a goodbye kiss. I watch her drive away. My office is wherever I choose. Sometimes it's outside by the pond or on the wrap-around porch during a rainstorm.

She comes home to join me for lunch under the lonesome old oak tree. We can see the valley below us and the lake it contains. We like to watch all the sailboats take hours to reach the other side. Occasionally we take the beautiful drive down the valley and spend time on the lake, and sometimes we go with friends to party and watch the Fourth of July fireworks explode and crackle and double in size upon the water's surface.

After lunch and another goodbye kiss she goes back to work, and I drive off to lose myself in the woods or a park full of people, to study and to take notes. When evening comes, we return home and relax together on the porch as the sun drops beyond the valley. The crickets start their music as the moon rises above us. Sometimes I play her a tune on my guitar. She's adorable when she melts. Then I melt.


My sad eyes gaze into the water and see just my shadow. The water doesn't judge me. It welcomes me however I am, whatever my life is. I always choose to come when it's dark. The water's reflection is best at night, for my reflection never has a face.

It's naive to think that a fresh start is bursting through double doors into brilliant sunlight. The water's glassy surface makes no ripple at the sound of my voice. But I wonder what the water would say if I could understand it. I would ask it how deep it is, but I know its depths have no end. The bottom is just the surface to another world.