When One Becomes a Lake

If they’d told me that becoming a lake was a good thing, I’d never have believed them. At first, I would have been right not to. Being a lake is dreary, you just sit in regurgitated tears all day, collecting viruses and dirt and there really is nothing fantastical about it.

One day, however, I witnessed the sun peeking through the arms of a weeping tree, casting the sky in pink and yellow. Painting my body, a reflection of the earth, in pastels. A frog darted quickly beneath a lotus and propped up on the pad to croak a morning song. Lovely, and just for me. No matter the weather, it was there.

Then, I stopped crying and encompassed the life that flourished within me.

And so, I dried up.

And so, I became nothing.