I’d risen from my empty bed an hour before dawn and crept outside to quiet my pain, in a manner of my choosing, in the place where we’d once been happy. The Internet had been no help, except for the few dark moments of hilarity when I’d perused the selection of options from a Wiki list of how to do myself in: wrist cutting (too messy), suffocation (unseemly, prolonged), electrocution (too abrupt), jumping from height (acrophobic), carbon monoxide (too polluting), hanging (no to bulging eyes/purple tongue), poison or pesticide (banned), immolation (too painful), or volcano (who’d know). Drowning would do, though.
Although I’d never been good at holding-breath games, I loved being underwater. They’d search and eventually find me anchored and the old rowboat adrift, oars neatly stowed, one signature red silk rose tied to the cleat on the bow, trailing white ribbons torn from the bridal gown I’d worn with such anticipation so many years before. For months I’d been daydreaming a gentle closure, of my eyes drifting shut in the soupy green ribbons of light that quivered on the bed of the lake, of my body floating undamaged and peaceful, so tastefully gone without fuss, just as I lived my life.
Yesterday, when everyone had traipsed to the park for a picnic, I measured out a length of stout line one meter short of the depth at the middle of the lake. I knew the distance I’d need. We’d been diving from the warped floating dock for decades, chasing water-logged teddy bears and deflated beach balls to the bottom and bobbing back to the surface, sputtering and shrieking with joy. I’d misplaced my joy long before the rusty moorings had snapped in a forgotten ice-jam, releasing the splintered arms of ancient wood to wash ashore. No one had bothered to replace either.
Attached to one end of the rope is a cement block I’d heaved onto a stack of burlap in the bottom of the boat one night and hidden under a mildewed tarp. I’d stacked the life jackets on the stern and greased the oarlocks, too, to thwart the nosey-parker early-risers down the lake. I had no need of lifesaving. No point in anyone wondering if I could have been rescued, either. Certainly not now, by foam and nylon. A long while ago, perhaps, it might have been possible, but too much time and so many acts of omission and commission had mortared any chance of restoration. Enough. I double-tack my note – a manifesto, actually, written and re-written on pale pink stationery then sealed in a zip-top bag – to the flag pole just steps from the shoreline.
A marshmallow crème haze coats the far banks of the lake, shredding into untidy veils beyond the shallows over the mouths of feeding fish. To my left, round bales of fog tumble down the gravel wash and unravel into pale light over cairns of stones roughed up by ancient glaciers. Mist swirling from the edge of the island coats my legs like tulle as I shuffle in a tight circle like a cautious dancer, taking one last look around. Will I miss this? Will I be missed? Water spiders skitter under the drifting shadow of a gray phoebe. No loons cry out. Is it because I’ve done enough?
