A short story by Sydney Solon (Gallatin BA ’21)
Lake Winnipesaukee is said to contain at least 264 islands. I do not like to write where I am, because my mind is always elsewhere. But, for the time being, I am in quarantine in a lakefront house with large, trapezoid windows that look out on Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire.
Outside these windows, there is an island at a point in the near distance that has lately been poking at my curiosity. The water which separates me and the island is volatile today. Other days, it remains so still that throwing a stone into the glass water would open a wormhole into a parallel reality, one of subterranean lake people who at night come to dance on the shoreline, and in the daytime, float leisurely just below the surface of the water.
The island in the distance, from where I stand, appears to be void of houses or boats docked on its shore. It seems to be inhabited by evergreen trees, or are they pine? I had never given much thought to differentiate types of trees. To me, they are all the same, they grow upwards, or sometimes they die. These trees seem particularly dense. The only way to discern where the lake ends and the island shore begins is the point at which the tides collapse, a whiplash of foam meeting those whatever-they-call-it trees.
On this island, from where I am writing this, there are people here. I have passed them on my morning runs. These humans have packed up their bags from New York City or Boston, escaping to their summer homes while the world around them is swallowed into global pandemic. They seem just like you and me, They offer a neighborly wave, maintaining a reasonable distance from the sound of my shoes on pavement. They step to the side of the road when we pass each other, and while we exchange pleasantries, they are living in fear of a force unknown. I am living in fear of a force unknown.
Astronomers believe that there are 10 trillion planets in the universe. On this planet, in this time, I entertain myself by believing that there are other forms of life on the 264 islands on Lake Winnipesaukee. There must be lake people who come out at night to dance on the shoreline, and in the daytime, float leisurely just below the surface of the water. There must be people that inhabit that Island not so far from my field of vision, and they must live a life similar to those under the belly of the lake. They are people who gather together and enjoy the splendors of food, drink, and dance. At night, they may congregate around a fire in the middle of the island, sharing stories with each other, feeling the warmth of a deep, shared connection. I imagine they run barefoot on fallen leaves, invincible, with no fear of splinters or open wounds, and in the middle of the day, sleep under the sunbeams able to permeate the dense leaves of those whatever-they-call-it trees.