I remember driving around a bend, feeling my friend’s eyes on me as he waited for my reaction; my own eyes peering through the trees and bushes along the roadside, picking up glimpses of silvery water just beyond.
And then, suddenly, the trees and bushes broke open, and it was as though I’d stepped into a photo, and the photo had come to life. “More like Ocean Erie,” I said.
That evening, we walked along a rocky beach, looking for beach glass. A cool lake breeze blew through my hair, seagulls called to one another, and the rhythm of lapping waves put my heart at ease. So much water. And Erie is supposed to be the little one. The endless blue seemed to swallow the horizon, becoming one with the sky.
My friend had called this the most peaceful place on earth. No wonder. Did he feel my eyes on him that evening, watching as he faced the breeze, letting it wash the sweat from his brow, letting it breathe new strength into travel-worn limbs?
I wish I could have stayed in that moment, basking in the mild sunlight, letting the waves calm my soul. But time doesn’t really stand still; life tumbles recklessly along, seasons change, and sometimes, even little oceans freeze over.