We Drift Then Rise

I lay beneath the willow trees, letting the sun pierce my porcelain skin. Ever since I was young, I have been fascinated by willow trees—how they surrender so easily to the wind, freely moving without resistance. I envy that kind of freedom.

From here, you can hear the waves faintly crashing into the shore, as if they too are reaching—longing—to touch something just out of grasp. I like to think of myself like the waves: always reaching, always searching, yet never able to grab hold of it. Like them, I’m caught in a cycle that I can’t quite escape.

My thoughts crowd my head until they ache through my body. I fall onto my back, pressing myself into the jagged, dead grass that's been scorched by the town's heat wave.

A long, still shadow peers over me, approaching without a sound. No crunch of grass. No warning.

“You’ve got to be one tough nut to be out in this blazing heat, eh?”

It’s a man, roughly my grandfather's age, dressed in cargo pants and a long-sleeved button-up. An odd choice for the weather, yet he didn’t seem to be sweating. He appears to have aged well: a full white beard, a decent head of hair, and a few wrinkles. Which is surprising given his age.

“And what is your mad reason for being out here?” I ask.

I’m curious, of course. I have yet to interact with a human being today.

“The waves were calling me.”

He looks at me deadpan, but I can’t tell if he is being earnest or not.

“Oh yeah? I didn’t know the lake had a hotline.”

“Don’t be smart, young one.” He says, pointing to his knee caps. “I could feel it in my bones.”

I stare at him with a confused look plastered across my face.

“Come on.” He grabs my hand and directs me towards the water.

As we approach the beach, he slips off his shoes, allowing the burning sand to scorch his feet. I keep mine on.

“Touch the water.” He says, kneeling down to cut the waves with his fingertips.

“I don’t really do water,” I admit.

Now it’s his turn to look confused.

“Just feel it. Watch how it moves with us—how it transforms. It becomes something new with every touch.”

He reaches for my hand once more, “Join me.”

And weirdly enough, I do. I mean, what do I have to lose? I slip off my shoes, then peel my sweaty socks from my feet, and step towards him. I grab hold of his hand, it’s cool and steady. Together, we walk deeper and deeper into Lake Ontario, until the cold water is crashing against our waists.

“When the water calls, I listen. It knows something I don’t.” His face brightens.

At first, the water shocks me—sharp and cold against my skin—but then it settles as if it's wrapping its arms around me. I can feel the pounding in my chest slow. The noise in my head begins to dull.

I look to the old man to see that he's standing there, eyes closed, looking up to the sun. I copy him, unsure why. But, I do.

For a moment, we’re just two strangers, suspended by the silence.

“You know, when my wife died, I came to this lake every day for a year straight. Something felt like it was tugging me towards it, and for a while, I hoped it was her,” He says, breaking the silence.

I jumped in, “Do you still think it is?”

He chuckles at me, “Oh no, dear. Now I think…maybe it's the universe trying to speak.”

His voice is firm, yet soft. I glance at him, but he doesn’t look at me.

“At first, I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere. I didn’t really want to be here either. But, the water didn’t ask much of me—it just kept moving, reshaping itself around my structure.”

He now glanced over to me with his hopeful eyes.

I swallow, not because I have something to say, but because I don’t know what to say.

“I thought I was done,” He explained. “I was sure the hovering melancholic feeling was going to last forever. But slowly, the agony began to fade. It softened. Then one day, I noticed the sunlight bouncing across the water. I noticed birds chirping. I noticed children laughing, and the vibrant flowers that poked through the grass. And soon enough, I realized I started looking up again.”

He turned his body to face me, giving me a soft smile.

“You won’t always feel like this. Whatever you’re carrying, it’ll fade.”

I quickly look away, not ready to confront the reality he has brought forth. I look to the sun, hoping it can soak me up, and away from the truth ahead.

“I fear I don’t know who I am without all the weight I carry,” I murmur.

“You don’t have to know quite yet,” He says. “You just have to stay in the water long enough to feel the current.”

We both turn to face the sun one more time, bathing in the silence that washes between us, letting the waves continue to push us back and forth.

And when we finally decide to walk back to the shore, the sand still burns, and the sun is still relentless. But something in me feels different, like I’m standing in my own skin for the first time in a while. My breath has slowed. My chest feels a little less tight. I’m still carrying it all…but not quite the same.

The old man pats me on the back, winks, and begins walking away. I slip on my shoes, turning to thank him—only to find no one there.

Gone. Just like that.

As I walk back to the willow trees, contemplating the surrealness of my afternoon, I notice something. A part of me has shifted. Not fixed or healed, but loosened. A little more free. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.