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The Lake

                        

A cedarstrip canoe floats on the tea stained waterway known as Wistawasing aka wassi lake. Two brothers paddle effortlessly toward the island across the way. The morning sun is hovering just above the horizon, illuminating a path on a mirror-smooth lake. The only conversation is that of paddles entering and leaving the surface. We are both lost in thought or maybe a silent prayer. 

I think of that lake often and when I think of him. We were young, alive and had all the time in the world. We didn't know how little time we had. Who would be first or who would be last was always decided on the races we run, not life and death. 

I go back to the lake, to a huge rock on the shore. The place where I received lectures every time I saw my brother. I was older than he, I should have been giving them instead of receiving them. Old doesn't mean wise. He asked me the same question “What are you going to do with your life?” I never could give him an answer because I didn't know. He must have seen something in me that at the time I just couldn't see. Now looking back I would say “I'm going to live it” I don't think he would have been satisfied with that answer either.

Now I'm just a guy with a paddle in his hands trying to get to the other side of the lake, taking in the view along the way. I don't mind being alone in the canoe because I have family and friends on both shores. My spirit floats and in front his spirit floats too. 
 
Somewhere between sunrise and sunset,  I'm on that lake and he is still with me and life is beautiful.

For my brother Mike. 



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