by D.J. Morris

Created on: November 14, 2008

A picnic at the lake

She hadn't realized that a picnic would become such a strong memory of a place she had never been. But, long after her grandmother and father were gone, her mind continued to extend aspects of the park. When she needed something more vivid than her own life to grasp, her mother, now pole thin and rigid with dirty white hair, fed her imagination. The old woman would finger the black and white photographs and then prop herself on the edge of a chair, her pastel cotton housecoat hanging on the stiffness of her moplike frame. She would sing an idyll to the park and to the moments with which it had blessed her family. Her words built a bridge and led her daughter, now older but not yet old, across to join them at the bucolic picnic.

From the park's entrance, the lawn spread to rest beneath several weeping trees, giant in size and gentle in nature, before tiptoeing down to the lake. A mass of green tendrils swung gently from each tree, like the hair of mermaids. The calm water was gray blue, a shade lighter than the heron that silently beat its wings to lift itself up and then over the water in a slow lullaby of a motion.

Visitors strolled the lawn and the water's edge in pairs or small family groups. Men rowed children in painted boats in circles while mothers opened blankets and baskets. The spaces between gatherings were cushions of comfort. They formed a community by sharing the park together.

She could see her grandmother waiting with a soft smile for her father and mother. After a leisurely ride, he would pull the boat up on to dry grass and help his young wife step out. She would steady herself in a ladylike manner by holding his hand in an intimate but discreet grasp.

The three would enjoy sweets and each other's company. They were blessed by comfortable companionship and the women's willingness to share the company of the only man in their lives. They sang songs they all knew, the younger woman giggling shyly behind her hand at the tremulous harmonizing of her husband's flat notes and his mother's high pitch. When it suddenly rained, they smiled happily as they huddled together under the parasol and ran to the red and gold pavilion.

But in time, the painted boats and pavilion peeled and splintered. The lawn grew wild and ragged. And the trees paled like straw. The deafening thunder of weapons and silence of fear drowned out the lonesome patter of raindrops in the weary refuge.

The opportunities to leave became fewer and fewer. They took the

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