You Could Never Forget What It’s Like to be Here

Look at the way the waves slap against the shore, gentle, unyielding. They carve at the rock, leaving holes and cracks and broken chunks everywhere, some of them brittle and sharp— painful to walk on barefoot.

The sky seems bigger here, the clouds painted by a blush brush. When you stand at the world’s edge, looking at the flat line of the horizon, you imagine for a moment that there is no end and nothing can exist on the other side. Ships become miniature, serenely disappearing somewhere in the blue on blue.

You breathe in. The air smells fresher than any other place you’ve been to. The first time you open the car doors after a long drive, this aroma of cedar and freshwater hits you, a fragrance like no other.

The lake has its moods, like anyone. At times it can be calm and still, so calm that you hear the cries of terns flying high above distant waves. Sound carries far and wide across the water. What two kayakers discuss a half kilometre from shore, you can hear too, at the beach. It’s easy to unwittingly eavesdrop on secrets spilled.

Other times, the lake roars and fumes in a violent tantrum. Foaming waves crash in opposition with the land, disturbing driftwood, pushing rocks to new places. You’ve always found it fascinating, watching the thunderclouds roll in and reflecting on the water’s surface, turning it dark.

Then there’s that perfect medium, the way the lake always sounds to you in your memory, when you’re away. It’s constantly talking, in its own way: steady waves blended with the wind, an ever-present murmur. It lulls you to sleep on warm summer nights, when clouds of pullulating mayflies make the air thick with their winged bodies.

You could never forget what it’s like to be here. Even the calls of seagulls, no matter where you hear them, in farmers’ tilled fields or in parking lots behind fast-food restaurants, always remind you of this place. 

After all, this is where you learned to walk, running over misshapen boulders and leaping across fissures—a two-legged mountain goat in shorts and a sun-hat. You could traverse the rocks blindfolded, even now, without falling; your feet remember the rough terrain, are confident where others would tumble.

There’s an unseen essence to this place that you haven’t found anywhere else. The whispering waves and cedar groves fuel your creativity, help it flourish. You’ve come up with your best ideas here. The expanse of restless water is a wellspring that never runs dry. Though the years may change you, the lake will stay the same, and that is its greatest gift of all.

**This poem was my first published piece in an official literary journal (not one that was associated with school), when it appeared in the June 2023 issue of Blank Spaces Magazine