When there is no wind I imagine that I am at Lake Bled with Pasha. The water is so flat and still. Pasha stands naked apart from his water wings. His white bum twitches when the cold moves through him. He flaps his arms a little, his wings might float on air. He jumps. The lake surface starts in surprise, murmurs as grinning Pasha runs back to me.
But when the ferry turns the lake with waves I am on a dry beach. Pasha skids across the tension of my memory, like an insect in the reeds, and is gone.
Photo credit: Darron Birgenheier
I love this story. I noticed it on the page because of the photo. I thought, Hmm that looks just like New Zealand!
…Across the tension of my memory.
Thank you.