Kennebago by Michelle Girard Looking across the vast expanse of blue, I feel alone. But not the alone that I feel when I’m left by myself. Nature surrounds me and beauty seems to bulge out at every corner. The lake is like glass. I catch a glimpse of an occasional ripple when a fish catches its dinner. The soft circular folds in the water are crystal clear against the afternoon sky. The water feels like silk and slips out of my hands; it’s so clear it replaces even the best mirror. My eyes catch a flash in the water, and millions of tiny rainbows rotate around the boat. I realize that it’s a trout, swimming close to the surface to warm its white belly on this June afternoon. In the distance I see a boat much like my own and a sillouhette of a fisherman standing up and casting line across the water. The long line curls behind him and slowly, lazily, he draws it over his head and after a flick of the wrist it lays to rest on the water. The fly dabbles across the small waves, waiting to catch the eye of the hungry salmon. I dip the paddle into the water and leave behind a small whirlpool. I reach the beach, the stern of the boat gliding through the white sand like butter. My feet touch the worn rocks that lie scattered on the tiny strip. My feet are also worn. The skin on the bottom has grown thick because of the hikes in the still forest. I leave the beach and walk up the dirt road. Birds sing songs and I hear the rustle of rabbits scurrying along the underbrush that follows the camp road. I look to the left and see the proud mountains touching the belly of the sky. When I go to the lake I feel connected to my grandfather, in a way which I could not during his short life. This was the place that he promised to teach me how to fish that following summer. That promise was shattered by death and sadness. I learned how to fish, but it was never the same. I almost fool myself into thinking that he is right there in the boat next to me, eating his favorite snack, diet Coke and M&M’s. His favorite color was blue. He would pry through the bag, his giant fingers working so delicately, like they did when he made flies in his little room in the camp. He came up with his treasure, a handful of blue M&M’s, and a smile would cross his face, and at those moments I wished that life could last forever. The lake brings back memories of my grandfather that seem forever buried in the back of my mind. Kennebago is the one place that I hold most dear in this world. My grandfather is there, not in body but in spirit.