The Sailors
She gingerly placed the paper boat atop the reflections of the sky. It skimmed over clouds and along the mossy banks through the milky part of dawn. As the afternoon got bolder, so did the boat. It ventured away from the torn edges and into the wide open where the sun turned away from its own brightness.
Araminta snapped the rubber bracelet on her wrist. The zing reminded her to reel in her heart like a fish rushing through the current on the end of a fishing line. It was what she wanted. She bit her lip harder than she had intended while tying her long hair back. Her feet squished into her sandals as she craned her neck one last time to catch a glimpse. The hem of her dress soaked up the muddy water like a paintbrush. Her footprints splattered the path that wound through the canvas of the forest. Thoughts of what no longer was grabbed at the wind to carry them somewhere else; anywhere else.
It’s interesting how things cannot return to their original form. A new tent will never return to its compact state as neatly as it came. Cut open, an apple will age. Once experienced, memories shift into new stories of their own. Trees can endure centuries of storms, rain saturating their wooden bodies and engorging their roots. And yet they stand, however knowingly in a different shape. This paper boat made of wisps of slices of a tree was no exception as it began to dissolve in the water. The edges went first disappearing into the pool of ancient rain. Its body, once as lithe as leaves twinkling in the moonlight, turned into soggy oatmeal. It broke apart into swirling pieces expanding like the universe back into which it came.
The disintegration of the delicate object Araminta had creased with her fingers wasn’t what sent electricity through her body. It was the drowning of each form that had shaped her words, each word that had shaped a sentence, each sentence that shaped the letter folded into the shape of a paper boat. Its journey was short but had served its purpose. The sails billowed with the breath of her love. Dear had gone first and then his name, blurring into inky swirls. Do you remember the time, followed. I never told you…your light was everything to me…I can still see you in the stars…I was in love with you, became part of the water.
Araminta’s words had never left her lips. They had finally pulsed out of her heart and into her bloodstream, finding their way to her fingertips. He never knew and he never would. But there was some solace now that the sunshine told the birds in the trees. Maybe her sentiments would even make their way to the clouds and one day rain down upon his head. He’d feel her love and he’d smile, brushing away the raindrops from his eyes; tasting her in his dry mouth. She would soak him with her love. She would captain a fleet of paper boats.
What she didn’t know was that a few boats had strayed off course. Instead of becoming one with the velvety waters, they entangled upon the banks within messy knots of vines much farther downstream.
He stroked his wiry beard and sighed while finding a tree to prop up his cane. Leaning over, the silvered gentleman balanced himself as he fished out the crispy trash from the dried edge of the brook that wound past his makeshift homestead. He didn’t tolerate things that weren’t invited and soured his nose at the sun-dried forms in his hand. Something caught his eye before he crunched the drifters into his dungaree pocket. It was a swirl of blue ink written with a deliberate hand. Even he, who hadn’t scribed a single letter in decades, could discern that.
Ambling up the slope to his home, he emptied his pockets onto the picnic table. He clumsily picked the wad apart from the inside out, unfurling it from its center like an origami pinwheel. Smoothing the crinkled edges and with a final flattening, the wavy words revealed themselves. He knew the letters weren’t written to him. In his 82 years, he had never received a love letter. This made no difference to him now. He always thought love would come along if it wanted to.
That night, inside the glow of his lantern, he read the letters again. The beautiful words spoke of love in a way he hadn’t heard before. Alone, he gave them time and let them unfurl into new shapes. Moments felt different now. He no longer raced along rivers that turned into years; things of grace dissolving before a second glance…or chance. The slow motion of a boat with sails found its current in his exhaling breath. Floating, he thought, not drifting. He was exactly where he was meant to be. Love had made its way to him after all, soaking into the rest of his days in this life and surely into the next. A tear rolled down his cheek. At last, he felt the weight of love and let himself drown within its timeless ripples.
Kelly Martone lives in a national park with her husband and two children. She finds inspiration in the compositional layers of nature’s palette and the confluence of water and stars.