The Girl of the Lake

Twice in my life, I saw the girl’s image in the lake. The first time I was just a little girl. My mama had sent me there to wash the dishes. I was walking down the pier when I saw it.

They say the lake remembers. They say the lake is an old man with blue eyes who sleeps and dreams about us. They say a lot of stuff about the lake, but I never believed any of it. I was a child and didn’t believe in magic.

The image I saw was just a reflection, like many the lake throws your way now and then to confuse you. A speck of light in the corner of your eye, quickly forgotten.

But this was different. The image stayed with me. It stayed with me all these years. I didn’t understand it then. Now I do.

I saw the image again yesterday. It was clearer this time. The old man had decided that I was worthy of its confidence. I was ready to see.

It was a girl. She looked sad, as if something bad had happened to her, as if asking for help. Her eyes open wide, like a scared deer.

I know the girl of the lake. We grew up together. We would build boats with the leaves of the mangrove trees and laugh loudly when the lake pushed them around. The old man - the lake - would drown our boats, but we didn’t care. We would build new ones.

Later on, we went dancing together. We drank together and did foolish things. She kissed the sawmill boy—crooked teeth, broad shoulders, red hair. The kind that never stays.

The girl was ashamed of it because he was no good and because he left the day after and because there was no future in it. I told her that no one ever died because of a bad kiss, but it wasn’t just a kiss. It was worse. It had consequences.

Her father beat her badly because of it. I don’t know how he found out. Maybe someone saw them. She walked with a limp and her eyes were puffy and she stopped laughing.

The girl married the town barber. He didn’t mind her big belly, he said. He was crazy for her, he said.

Then the child came and it all went to hell. Love turns bad when a child cries all night and you don’t have any money and people laugh at a son that is not your son.

The girl went away. Took the child to the big city far away and forgot, but she didn’t forget. She lived and she laughed and drank and danced and was often ashamed because of it all.

Her hair went gray and her son grew up and she learned to live with it because she found the beauty in her sadness.

As I was walking by the pier, a little limp in my step still, the wind picked up. A wave danced over the old man. It made tiny ripples in the water.

The image was broken briefly, but then came back, clearer than before.

And there it was. My own reflection.

The lake remembered. The old man dreamed of me. I understood then.