Her Place

Daylight filtered down through the water’s surface, warm with possibilities that never seemed to quite reach her. The seaweed stretched high above her, drawn to that same light. But she knew better than to try. Her place was here, in the chill shadows of the lake. But even so, she looked above. Watching. Waiting.

It was some time before a familiar shadow moved across the rippling sunshine. The light danced and scattered as the shape dove down, its feathered form speeding into the depths with surprising grace.

“What news?” she asked eagerly. “How are things up above?”

“Much the same,” the loon answered. It darted about her, its red eyes watching for food. “The season is warm. The hunters hunt; the fishermen fish. The cycles continue.”

“And what about the searchers? Have they returned?”

The loon slowed for a moment, regarding her. “No one searches. Not since the ice came and went.”

“But surely they’ll be back?” she pressed.

The loon said nothing for a time, and the silence chilled her more than the cold, dark shadows, more even than the rusting chains around her fish-eaten ankles.

“No one searches,” the loon finally said again. “The cycles go on.”

She watched as the loon returned to the surface, returned to the warmth of life. The distance between her and the surface was too great. The distance between death and life, greater still. Her place was here, in the chill shadows of the lake. But even so, she looked above. Watching. Waiting.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison