The Loons

            I was in Maine one September, visiting my son Doug who was on location working on a movie. He had rented a cottage on a pond (that’s Maine talk for a lake) and asked me to visit. “You’ll love it, Mom,” he said. He was right. I did.

            I had lived on the shore of a lake while growing up and although I’d envied my city friends being able to visit each other whenever they wished, the quiet of the country was right for me. There were three Lombardy Poplars at the edge of our property that my father called “the old maids.” I’d lie out on a summer night and listen to them whisper to one another, secrets I would never fathom.

            Growing up, the bedroom I shared with my sister had a dormer window that looked out over the lake. My father had built a window seat there and my mother had made a pretty cushion for it. I spent hours reading and dreaming there.

            One summer night, I woke and went to sit in the alcove. The moon over the lake was full and cut a shining path across the dancing waves. I stared in wonder. And then I saw them, a pair of loons swimming across that silver band of water, their sad call cutting through the night air. I felt a chill rise in my back. This was a scene I would never forget and I knew it. I sat quietly for a long time to honor the moment and the loons. This is my life, the movie I’m working on.