Mirrortide

I.

So far, I have learned many words – people talk a lot. At first, I thought they were only babbling. I’m used to babbling things. Owls bicker a lot, hooting at each other from their favourite branches, not quite wise enough to understand the entire forest can hear their squawks. Squirrels chitter a lot too but say very little. “That’s a good spot,” they say as they bury a seed, then uproot it long before it can sprout a sapling. They’re not very good gardeners, I’ve discovered.

But people make many noises. When they first appeared around the lake below, they seemed to call everything ‘ugh’ or ‘huh’ and apparently showed meaning by pointing their fingers at things. It took them a while to find new noises and even longer to put those noises together. ‘Words,’ I heard them call them. Fascinating things, ‘words.’ They let you move a thought from yourself into someone else. I wish I could make these words. But so far, I’ve figured out that words, as well as noises at all, come alongside many of the other peculiar habits of softer bodies.

Seeing is something I haven’t quite figured out yet. They talk a lot about looking and seeming, which I’ve so far figured out is not hearing. And it seems to me (you like what I did there? How person-like of me) that seeing travels much further than hearing. I’ve heard them talk about twinkling stars in an ever-violet sky. By the way they talk of ‘stars,’ they sound very far-off indeed, but I don’t think I’ve heard them yet. I’ve assumed, so far, that they must be just above me, just too far for me to hear their ‘twinkling’. Though I’m hoping they come close enough sometime for me to hear them, like the sparrows that one time or the bugs that buzz around every so often.

I tend to put the words I’ve learned into three lists. First are the understandable words, like sitting and waiting and listening (since what am I doing if not sitting and waiting and listening). These words make sense since they are things I do too, or have done, or feel, or have felt.

The second list are the words that I can guess at but am not yet lucky enough to have done or felt. These words include speaking and breathing and moving. I wish I could do these things (except breathing, that one sounds like a hassle that I would likely forget). Speaking would let me help these people help themselves (they seem to repeat a lot of the same mistakes) and moving sounds like a great way to hear a great many more things.

The third list are the nonsensical words I don’t think I’ll ever understand. Dying is one they talk about a lot. To me, it seems the same thing as ‘stopping talking’ which, although a very sad thing, is something they do quite often. ‘Sleeping’ seems to be when they do it for a short time and ‘dying’ when they do it a longer time, but they seem much more concerned with the latter than the former, which has forever confused me.

I dislike both ‘sleeping’ and ‘dying’. They lead to long periods of quiet and quiet is something I’ve experienced plenty enough. It was a novelty when I was younger, when sounds were rare and I knew nothing else. My first friends (I think that’s what they’re called – friends) were the wind and the rain. They talk a lot with their whistling and their tapping, and it took me a long while to decipher that there was nothing much to decipher from their talking. Much like the owls and the squirrels, they talk a lot but say very little.

But despite their inane chatter, I am thankful to the wind and rain for the gifts they once gave me. I haven’t even given them anything in return, that’s how I know they are good friends of mine. The wind gave me this hill to sit on – much nicer than when I was buried in the ground. There wasn’t much to hear in the soil, other than the world groaning and talking to itself (don’t even get me started on the world). And then, once the wind had thoroughly carried away the soil and let me sit on this hilltop, the rain made the lake below me. It was nice for a while, listening to the lake and the wind and the rain talk – whistling and sloshing in their back and forth. That passed a great amount of time and kept me entertained until all the little noisy things arrived.

First were the plants (boring) who didn’t say much or do much at all (I’m sorry, I shouldn’t complain. They’re much like me in that regard – sitting and waiting and listening). Then a little while after them, the bugs and the beasts and the birds arrived. They made all manners of noises. Then came the people, first like the bugs and beasts, speaking a lot but saying very little, until recently when they started making their ‘words.’ And from their words, down there in their town by the lake, I’ve heard about their many ‘lives’.

They talk a lot about a lot of things, but when you’ve listened for as long as I have, you start to see repetitions.

They talk a lot about ‘dying’, as I’ve said before, which I’m sure I’ll figure out sometime. ‘Dying’ doesn’t sound as bad as they make it out to be. It sounds a lot like what I do – sitting and waiting and listening.

They’ve recently started talking a lot about ‘money’ and ‘costs.’ A lot of their days are spent around these words, and I think I’ve finally figured out their meaning. Or rather, I’ve figured out that they don’t have a meaning at all. There was this one man, I heard the other night, complaining about how high the cost of ‘wine’ had become, while just the night before I’d heard another man complaining how he’d raised the cost of his ‘wine’ because he couldn’t afford the cost of ‘bread’. You see, the first man had raised the cost of his ‘bread’ in order to buy more ‘wine’ and now I’m starting to think they made up these words just to have more excuses to talk. Or maybe they like to complain, because I think their predicament would’ve been solved if they’d just used their words on each other, rather than grumbling to themselves on opposite sides of the lake.

The third thing I hear a lot is called ‘love’. So far, I’m yet to figure out if ‘love’ is a good thing or a bad thing. I’ve figured out that it’s a ‘disease’ (I think that’s what they call it), because I heard someone say they were lovesick and, on many occasions, I’ve heard that ‘love hurts.’ And it sounds, to me, a very dangerous disease, since it ‘breaks hearts’ and hearts seem to be quite important for them. But then I’ve also heard people say that love is when you like someone so much you want to be around them for a long time, and I don’t understand why you would want to be around something that hurts. I think I like a vast many things and, so far, I’m yet to ‘hurt’. Liking things seems, to me, a pleasant thing.

I’ll have to ponder that one a while.

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II.

It was on one such occasion, when the town was sleeping and I was pondering a thought, that I met my new best friend. The rain had been yapping away quite a while, the lake bickering back (both talking over one another as they always do), when I heard a rustling from the nearby trees. There have been many trees beside me for a long while, the people below call it the western forest (I think west is a direction), but they’re the quiet type of tree – unmoving. They sometimes chatter with the wind when she passes, but most often they stand silently beside me.

Rustling was a common occurrence, of course, but it never ceased to excite me. It often meant a beast or a bird, or on some occasion, what the people below call a walking tree. They would emerge from the forest, wander around a little, and then scurry away. But in those few moments, I would have a new friend.

It usually only took me a moment to figure out who my new friend was. The sound of its fur or feathers or branches; the number of legs that plopped through the mud; and the sounds of their barks or chirps (if they were the type to bark or chirp at all). This, though, was a strange occasion because I couldn’t immediately figure out who my new friend was. It made a weird huffing noise, and there were far too few plops in the mud for something four-legged, and it made a strange rustling sound as it moved that was unlike fur or feathers.

What was most peculiar was that it came straight up to me, stopped beneath me, and then spoke.

“Sorry to intrude!” it said.

The voice reminded me of a mouse, the way it squeaked, but by the fact that it made coherent sense (and words) I realised that it must’ve been a person. Likely a small person – a girl I think they’re called (or a child, I get confused on the difference sometimes).

“Just waiting out the rain,” she said. “Then I’ll get out your way.”

I wasn’t quite sure who she was talking to. People do like to talk a lot, and sometimes to themselves, but she certainly seemed to be talking to someone. I hadn’t heard anyone else beside her.

I heard her plop down in the mud, though she seemed to be somewhere out the rain since I didn’t hear the rain’s chatter around her. Maybe she’d found a spot where I was in the way of the rain. Maybe she was irritated by the rain’s bickering. If I could have asked her something, that’s what I would’ve asked.

There was another plop, or thud I should say, as she flopped herself flat, I think. She puffed out a big breath as I’ve heard people do when they flop onto their ‘beds’. But after a few moments, she squeaked again.

“Oh! Where are my manners,” she said, and she sat back up from her flopped position. There was more shifting and rustling as I heard her wrestling with something (a bag, I think she later called it).

“What do you prefer?” she said. “I’ve got primroses and pink roses and daffodils and dandelions.”

I’d heard of these before – ‘flowers.’ Apparently, they’re ‘colourful’ and ‘smell nice’ and have hundreds of different names even though they all seem, to me, pretty much the same. People seem to love them, which I’ve never understood. Flowers rarely make any noises at all – I much prefer the bees that buzz around them.

“Hmm,” she made a weird noise that I don’t think is a word. “You seem like a primrose. Primroses mean safety and shelter, so you can have primroses.”

There was another rustling as she placed one bundle of flowers in the mud and the others back in her ‘bag’.

This was the third gift I’d ever received, but my first and only gift from a person. I wished I could have given her a gift in return – I tried to think what I could give to my new friend, but I had nothing to give, and no way to give it. If I’d had a voice, I’d have thanked her and told her “I owe you one!” (that’s what they always say) but all I could do was accept the gift so ungratefully silent. I felt ashamed of myself. I hoped she wouldn’t think less of me.

She was quiet for some time, so I’d concluded that I had immediately offended my new friend (well done me). But after a while she spoke again, and she didn’t seem disgruntled at all.

“Do you mind if I stay until the rain passes?” she said. There was an apologetic tone to her voice, as if she was putting me out of my way, which was silly of her because I quite adored the company. I had heard a lot of people over the ‘years’, but they rarely came so close. Their voices were always distant and mumbled, yet with her beside me, I could hear her crisp as the wind and the rain.

“It doesn’t look like it’ll stop for a while,” she continued. “And it’s not so cold here. So just until I dry off, if you don’t mind?”

Of course, if I could talk, I would have told her to stay as long as she liked. But all she heard instead was the rain’s constant chattering.

But thankfully she must’ve heard my agreement, because she splatted back in the mud. This must’ve been a peculiar girl, because most people seem to dislike the mud, yet she seemed not to mind it at all. That was something we had in common. I liked mud because of the noises it makes. It plops and sploshes and sloshes and squelches. When the soil is dry, it makes little noise. Even if the rain was a little irritating at times (with its constant yapping), it at least made the soil more talkative.

I wondered what she liked about mud. If I could ask, I would have asked. Maybe she liked the sound too? But she didn’t seem too pleased with the rain (I didn’t want to gossip about the rain, they are a friend too, of course, even if incessant at times), so maybe there was something else about mud she liked. People are peculiar, of course, and have peculiar little likes and dislikes.

“What’s your name?” she said after a yawn. “I’m Fio.”

Names were another of their peculiar things. People liked to label things they liked (and disliked) but did it in confusing ways. At first, I’d assumed (logically) that names were used to describe something using more specificity. Someone isn’t just a ‘person’, they’re a ‘gardener’, so they call that ‘person’, ‘gardener’. But no. They don’t do that at all, because that would be logical. This Fio person, for example, was called ‘leaf’, even though she was very much not a leaf (unless I’ve horribly misunderstood their language all this time).

“Maybe you don’t have a name,” she continued. “Oh, you must have a name!”

I’d never considered what I’d be named, were I a person. But their names were so illogical, it was likely a foolish thing to ponder. I was usually interested in what I was, more than what I would be called.

For a long time, the people by the lake called their town ‘Reví-mado-gésha’, the lake beneath the sleeping boulder. I had wondered a while if they meant me – if I was the revi-mado, the sleeping boulder – since I am above the lake and I sleep a lot (that is to say that I sit and wait and listen a lot). But I’ve neither heard a ‘boulder’ nor heard myself, so I can’t say for sure if we sound the same.

I’ve never needed to introduce myself, so a name has never been a necessity. It was then that I began to ponder in circles, considering how best to introduce myself to my new friend, Fio. But, of course, I couldn’t introduce myself, since I couldn’t talk like Fio.

“I’ll call you… hmm,” she said.

Hmm was not a name I had heard before, and I have heard many names. So far, I had assumed ‘hmm’ was not a word at all, since I was yet unable to decipher its meaning. But if it was to be my name, then I’d have to listen better to figure out its meaning.

That is, until she spoke again, and I realised my foolishness.

“What about… Addo,” she said. “I like Addo, since you’re a special rock, like the one in Kéo the Worldshaper.”

It was a wonderful name – I liked Addo too – since it meant many things. ‘Do’ means rock, which confirmed, for me, that I was in fact a ‘boulder’ (which also makes me rethink whether she is in fact a leaf). ‘Ad’, however, could mean many things. It symbolises uniqueness, individuality: it could mean blessed or respected, as much as it could also mean alone. Fio had said it to mean special, but I think lonely wasn’t far from the truth either – I do spend a lot of time on this hilltop alone.

“Nice to meet you, Addo,” she said, and I could hear her patting something flat and firm (perhaps me, if I am in fact a rock).

I would’ve returned the nice gesture, if I could, though I’ve also heard that people don’t like falling rocks. So instead, I sat in silence, unable to even return a “nice to meet you too, Fio,” and waited and listened.

Soon she spoke again.

“I bet you’ve seen a lot, Addo,” she said, which was quite a foolish thing for her to say. I’ve seen nothing at all, if I’ve understood correctly what it means to see. But I’ve heard a lot, that’s for sure. And if I could speak, I could tell her all the things I’ve heard, from the first thundercracks in the first storms to the many births in the lakeside town (which I must say are not as sweet as the people make them out to be. They often just sound like a lot of bad words and yelling).

“There’s so much out there, isn’t there? You must’ve seen it all.”

Again, a foolish thing to say, but I forgive her. If I could move, I would have roamed far and wide to hear all that the world has to say. The people talk of distant places to the ‘east’ and ‘west’. They say that the west is dark and covered in cold snow (neither of which mean much to me) and that the east is hot and forever bright (which also mean nothing to me). But they both sound fascinating, because I’m sure these ‘bright’ places and ‘dark’ places have their own new noises. Maybe they have their own wind, and their own rain, and their own people with their own words.

“I don’t even know where to start,” she continued. “East or west, east or west. I can’t decide.”

The rain continued to chatter away as she fell quiet again. Or rather, quietly made noises which I don’t think were words. ‘Hmms’ and ‘huhs’ like the first people who came to the lake. I wasn’t afraid she had lost her words (well, maybe only a little), since I knew at this point it was a peculiar thing people did when they were pondering many thoughts.

“I’m thinking east,” she finally said. “There won’t be any flowers in the west. It’s too dark. Flowers like sunlight, they’ll be in the east.

“But…

“What if there’s no rain? What if it’s too hot and there’s no mud and the flowers are all dried up?

“And if it’s hot then it’ll be sweaty and icky and smelly.

“Not smelly in the nice muddy way, smelly in the stinky way.

“You know what I mean, Addo?”

She seemed to wait for me to respond, but I was too enthralled by her little monologue. I was caught unaware and unprepared for my response. If I were a person, I’d have stuttered and spluttered and blurted some strange reply. But I can’t talk, of course, so I was saved the embarrassment.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “We’re friends, so we get each other.

“I bet you’d prefer the west, wouldn’t you, Addo.

“You’d get all that crunchy frost on your head, and icicles on your face like a big ol’ beard.”

She giggled.

“I can imagine you with a beard, Addo. You should try it.”

I liked the idea of a beard too – though, of course, I’d never considered it. For that matter, I’d never considered the idea of having a face or a head. But the way she giggled made me wish I could, if only to hear her giggle again.

“My Apa had a beard,” she continued.

“A big bushy beard,” she said with a different voice, mimicking a man, and giggled again. I think they call it ‘acting’ when they put on a silly voice like that.

“You couldn’t see his mouth when he talked it was so bushy,” she said in her mousy voice again. “Ama hated it, but she hated everything, so Apa would just make silly faces at me when she told him to cut it and told her that he couldn’t cut it because I liked it.

“And I did like it, of course, because it made him look like an old dog. You know the type, Addo? The big ones that flop on the floor and wheeze with their big moustaches.”

‘Dogs’, I should say, spend a lot of time around people but are not, to my knowledge, people. Though I’m not entirely sure people realise that.

“But eventually he cut it, of course,” she said. “And it took a while for me to get used to it. I didn’t recognize him at first – he no longer looked like a wheezing old dog but a flabby old man. It was weird. But I got used to it. He was still Apa after all.”

At this point, I had a lot of questions. I already knew many of the words: dog, flabby, beard. I knew the gist of the story, but didn’t get the meaning. Why would her ‘Ama’ care about a beard? Do beards make noises I’m unfamiliar with? Do they incessantly chatter like the rain or yell-too-loud like the thunder? I wished I could ask her, and be a good friend to talk to, but, of course, I could not, so she continued instead.

“I hope there are flowers in the east,” she said. “It‘d be a shame to walk all that way.”

She went quiet a while then, and the silence was filled with the rain’s constant chattering. It wasn’t quite as pleasant as Fio and her words (sorry, rain, but we’re still friends of course).

You see, I’ve heard many things – the world is a noisy place. I’ve heard the wind and rain and lakes and leaves and birds and beasts and bugs. And I’ve heard people and their words, which they say a lot, in their town on the lake below. Their words are quiet from up here, I can’t hear them all, but I’ve heard a great many things a great many times.

But I’d never been told a thing. I’d never heard a noise that was made just for me. I’d always overheard or listened (‘eavesdropping’ they call it) as the people ‘lived’ and ‘talked.’ I’d never been asked what I think or asked if I agree. I’d never had a name or even know what I was. And I know I can’t talk, and I know I can’t see, but it was a wonderful thing that Fio had given me.

She said wonderful things. I hoped she would say more.

At this point, I’d thought of many questions to ask, if I’d had the mouth with which to ask them.

What is the best word?

I liked this question, because I liked a lot of words. I liked words which make the noise that they meant, like ‘pitter patter’ and ‘splash’ and ‘crack’ and ‘crash.’ I thought, if I were a person, I would say them a lot, because I think they’d be fun to say, if I had a mouth to say them. But I also like words that mean more than they mean. Like ‘hilltop’ which means home. Or ‘Fio’ which means friend.

Which is the best flower?

I thought she would like this question – she seemed very much to like her flowers. I don’t understand why, of course, and her choice would mean nothing to me (since all flowers are the same). But I wanted to hear what it was she would say, and how it was she would say it. I knew her choice would be correct, I would have no argument at all, because she was very wise for a person, and any favourite of hers was surely the best.

But if she would ask me, what my favourite is? And if I couldn’t choose something more noisy, like a bee or a fly, then I think I’d pick primrose. Like many of the best words, it means more than it means.

What are your ‘Ama’ and ‘Apa’ like?

I think this is how they ask it, I’ve heard it a lot. This question is an indulgence, more for me than for her (please excuse my selfishness). ‘Parents’ are a thing on my list of words I’ve never made sense of. I’ve never had ‘parents’ (or ‘parents’ that I’ve met, if boulders do in fact have parents) so the word has only further muddled my understanding of that strange word ‘love’. You see, ‘parents’ and their ‘children’ go through many bouts of shouting at each other, which is not a nice sound at all. It sounds a lot like ‘dogs’, who bark at things they don’t like. But despite their shouting, they still say that they ‘love’ one another. It has forever confused me and led me to wonder if there are perhaps two different words that both hide under the word ‘love’, like how ‘bark’ is a harsh noise but also wraps around a tree. That perhaps there is a ‘love’ for those who should be together, and a ‘love’ for those who would be better apart.

But, of course, I have many questions, but no mouth to say them. So, I sat, and I waited, and I listened, and I hoped Fio would speak again.

Soon the rain stopped it’s chattering and went away for a while. I was frustrated. Of all the days to stop yapping so soon, it decided the day when I’d just made a new friend. I’d always thought the rain was my friend, so why’d he betrayed me so? Was he jealous I was listening to someone else for a while? Listening to someone who said far less, but had much more to say.

I was just being dramatic, of course the rain isn’t spiteful – he was my first friend after all. I’m sure they had quietened to let our new friend talk and had simply misunderstood the situation at hand. Because, with the rain quiet, Fio was surely ready to leave.

As I waited to hear the rustling of her standing and leaving, I thought of a great many things I could say to make her stay.

There’ll be more flowers here than in the east! It’ll be too hot there. You should stay here a while. You can plant flowers beside me, and be a gardener, and tell me which flowers you’re growing and why it is that you’re growing them. And if there are bugs and beasts that will threaten your flowers, I’ll keep them safe. If I’m a rock, a boulder as you say, you can make me a wall and I’ll keep your flowers safe. I don’t mind if I crack, or I’m split into pieces, if you just plant me some primroses and tell me their ‘colour’ and tell me what it means to see ‘colour.’

But I had no mouth to say these things, so I sat so disappointingly quiet and waited for her to leave.

Until a little while had passed, and she still hadn’t left. I could just about hear, beneath the odd noises left after the rain’s departure, where Fio lay in her shelter, were her quiet breaths. Like a dormouse curled in a flower-head, it’s easy to miss in the whistling wind and sloshing mud, but I found the delicate tiny sound. I wondered if she was sleeping, since she seemed to be sitting and waiting, but I doubt very much that she was listening (since neither I nor the rain were talking at all).

“East or west,” she said, but it was quiet and mumbled. Perhaps she had forgotten I was there and had began speaking to herself (as people often do), because the words were faint as a distant leaf.

“Maybe I should stay,” she said.

And I agreed, of course she should stay. From what I’ve gathered, people need very little. They need to ‘eat’ and ‘drink’ and ‘sleep’ and ‘breathe.’ That was all. ‘Breathing’ I couldn’t help with, but I was sure I could figure out ‘eating’ and ‘drinking’ for her. There was a whole town below and a whole forest around, I’m sure all she needed was right here if she stayed.

“I should go home,” she said.

It wasn’t my first choice, of course I wished she’d move her ‘home’ up to the hilltop with me (we could’ve been neighbours). But it seemed likely that her ‘home’ was in the town on the lake below, so that wasn’t too far. I’d at least be able to hear her, occasionally, and she’d be able to visit often (I hate to be a pain like that, I would visit her if I could, but unfortunately, I cannot move).

“But what about the primroses, Addo?” she said. It seemed she hadn’t forgotten I was there (thankfully). “And the pink roses and the daffodils. I can’t let them all get snipped. If she doesn’t want them, where are they supposed to go?

“I liked them, Addo. I really really liked them. And he snipped them. He snipped them because she said to snip them.

“And now they’re all just going to go brown because she didn’t want them because I wanted them.”

She made those strange noises again, which aren’t words, but means she was thinking words.

“What do you think, Addo?” she said. “Should I go? I want to go. I really want to go, but maybe I should wait.”

I wanted to say no. If I could have said anything at all, I wanted to say, stay with me and I’ll keep them safe from ‘her’. I’ll keep you safe from ‘her.’ Whatever ‘her’ is and whatever ‘safe’ from ‘her’ means. But honestly, I knew that wasn’t an option. I knew the choice was one of two, between primroses and thistles, and I think I’m starting to understand the difference between flowers.

I’ve heard many things from the people below. And many times, I’ve heard the same mistake. It begins with the same words, ‘could’ and ‘want,’ and is followed by some others, ‘but’ and ‘should’. Maybe it’s just that I’ve heard many things, or maybe I’m mistaken (I am just a rock), but it seems so often that the decision is to wait. And to wait and to wait, until the ‘could’ is a ‘could have’ and the ‘should’ is a ‘have to.’ It seems, to me, that each predicament could’ve been solved, if they’d not only used their ‘words’ but listened to them too.

So, if I could have said anything at all, I would have said to go. Go now and see the flowers before they go ‘brown’. Before thistles become thorns, and cages become towns. Walk because you can walk and see because you can see. Live because you can live (whatever that might mean). I would have told Fio to do everything, to ‘walk’ and ‘see’ and ‘live;’ do it all just to do it or do it just for me. But do more than ‘sit,’ and do more than ‘wait.’ Just go see the flowers, there’s no need to stay.

It seemed, although I understand unlikely, that she heard my pleas, because she then said,

“You’re right, Addo. I’ll do it.

“I remember my Apa saying, before everything, that to the east, a little bit east not all the way east, that there are flowers that move. In the eastern forest, he said. And I really hope that’s true, though he didn’t always say things that are true, but flowers that move! I think that’s where I’ll start.

“I think we’d be friends, me and all the moving flowers. They could stay in my bag and we’d all go on a big adventure together, Fio & the… & the… bouquet? The garden? Okay, I dunno, Addo, but I’ll figure out what to call us.”

It hadn’t occurred to me before, and I’ve pondered a great many things. That, although I cannot ‘move’, I could perhaps be moved. I wanted to ask her that. If it wasn’t too much hassle. I wouldn’t want to be burden, of course. And she had already given me such gifts. But, if she was to go, and I knew that she should, that she would perhaps take me with her, and we could stay friends?

And, as if she’d heard, she continued.

“I wish I could take you too, Addo. If I had a bigger bag, and maybe an elk and cart, I’d be sure to. But I can’t really carry a boulder.”

She giggled. And it somehow made the disappointment not so bad.

“I’ll come back and visit sometime, alright?”

It was a wonderful thought, but also a strange sound. I liked it but also didn’t. Like a sound you hate from something you like – a dog’s bark or a child’s cry.

And then she was gone, like a leaf in the wind, rustling back through the trees. I hope we meet again, however long it might be. I’ll be fine in the meantime. I have plenty to keep me busy on my hill, with the town ever-growing around the lake below. Sometimes I hear her voice in the chatter, and hope that she turned around and decided to stay. Each time I’m mistaken and left a little disappointed. I’m thankful though, when I find that I’m mistaken. I’d be more disappointed to find her back so soon – she should be off in the world, where the flowers are ‘colourful’ and the mud is ‘smelly in the nice muddy way.’

So here I sit and wait and listen. I listen to the wind, who travels the world and sees from above. I listen to the rain, who talks too much, but sees also what’s below. And sometimes they whisper that she’s doing well, and that she’s safe and she’s happy. And so I’m alright with sitting and waiting, because I know that she’s giggling somewhere, and that is my favourite sound of all.

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