The woman sat down heavily on the time worn bench. It felt hard and cold beneath her thin skirt but somehow reliable, comforting. The day had been challenging.
Neither young, nor old, on a good day, she could be beautiful. More from what shone in her eyes than the physical. On a bad day the mirror gave her little charity, left no doubt that life had left its mark.
Across the lake the full moon illuminating the tree-scape held her attention. Her gaze moved to the glass-like surface of the lake, to the moon reflected there. The aura of something ominous hung in the air, lurked patiently in the shadows around her. The unknown, backlit by the ever present.
How many times had she come here, she wondered, to share her silent thoughts with the lake? Witnessed only by the moon, in its many shapes how many secrets had sunk below that glass-like surface, never to re-emerge?
For a moment, as the weight of the day bore down on her, she wondered if the lake could hold all her secrets. Hold them forever. She wondered if she really had the courage to give them all up.
She rose, still weary from the day. Her loafers fell easily from her feet and her toes curled a little at the shock of the cool grass. In that moment only she, the beckoning lake, and the ever-watching moon existed.
As one foot slipped easily into the shallow water, she felt the weight on her shoulders begin to lift. The other foot slipped beneath the water. The lake, her blackened accomplice. A wave of comfort flowed through her.
She stooped and grasped a small smooth and rounded stone. Felt its seductive curves and its weight, in her small hand. Again, she felt the pull of the inky night deep in the lake’s bosom. Oh, to be held there. She clenched her fist tightly around the pebble. Cast it hard and far, listening for the expected “plop” as it went to meet the lake at its deepest. The lake seemed to sigh as it accepted the rock as the lesser prize, releasing the woman from its mesmerising grip.
The ripples reflected a thousand moons shimmering and dancing across the surface, like the swirl and flow of the woman’s skirt.
Suddenly she could feel the water’s chill move up her legs. Pulling her jacket tightly around her shoulders she stepped back onto the grassy shore. Wet feet sliding into warm shoes, she spun around, her skirt swinging against her legs.
A shiver ran through her and a shuddering gasp escaped her parted lips.
She marched quickly up the grassed bank to the road toward her waiting car, slid onto the seat and hit the radio button. Something familiar bellowed out and her thoughts turned to routine things. For the moment, the dark lake and the watching moon were pushed aside. She knew that they would always be there for her, if ever she needed them.
Burnside Writers Group 