Indecisive Dreaming

lakes

When I feel like there's no one who I want to talk to, and no one who I'd rather be with than myself, I go to the lake. The lake is my getaway, and it is my hideaway. It's a place where only I belong, and suddenly I'm a little girl again, happy in the company of her imagination.

And although I may be the only human, I am never alone. There are birds chirping in the bushes, and a tiny cicada beside me on the shore. Bulrushes sway in the breeze, and dragonflies dart among them, iridescent wings flinging light into my eyes.

I never truly leave civilization. Across the shimmering water, I see three houses nestled into the woods on the opposite shore. One of them is small and square, like a brown, wooden box. I imagine a woman called Nancy lives there, and she likes gardening. She's small and stout, just like her house, but she's friendly and kind, and you'll always find the smell of chocolate chip cookies wafting from the open screen door.

Next door is a tall, three storey structure painted white. In my imagination, a wealthy couple lives there. I don't know their first names, because they are not the type for that. Instead, I call them the Hudsons. Mrs. Hudson is a steely woman who works in real estate. She dresses in designer clothes and keeps the house spartan and spotless. Her husband, Mr. Hudson, wears a suit. He travels away on business, leaving her alone, but there's something missing from their life.

The last house is the most mysterious. It's a tiny blue hut, with white, wooden shutters on the windows that are never opened. Flowers line each side of the garden path, but only the lavender bushes are ever tended. An ancient wooden rowing-boat rocks back and forward at the end of the jetty.

I don't know who live inside that last house. Sometimes, my imagination says it is an old, wizened wizard with hair the colour of stormclouds and a long staff that he uses to cast spells. Other days, it's a young woman who dreams of becoming a writer someday, and stares out at the lake, lost in her daydreams.

Today, nobody lives there. It's an abandoned old hut that's a ramshackle mess, and falling down. Whoever lived there died long ago, and the rowing-boat has since been burned on somebody's bonfire, nothing but kindling in the end.

What they don't realize is that it was kindling, with the power to spark hopes, dreams, and ideas in the mind of a little girl. As I stand to go, my old bones creaking, the little girl I once was is still there. I hear her laughter fading in the air as she skips away in the worn blue dress she loves.