The Pond OWEN HOFFSTEN
We walk in the brush along the side of the pond and try to feel good about ourselves. I am young out here, in the middle of the woods, where no one can see me but her. The only thing standing between me and old age is being seen—framed by a gaze that will follow me everywhere as soon as I step off the land. But for now I am alright, circling around this pond with my best friend, feeling like I could do the loop a million times if I wanted. If that’s what it took to stay here forever. Her name is Mary and she’s been my best friend for the past 10 years. Her eyes are shaped like delicate almonds, and her mouth is rough and sincere. Every time I walk with her, I feel like the two of us drop off the face of the Earth and emerge somewhere else completely different, a place where time doesn’t move like it does normally. So here, at the pond, where time is sweet and gentle, we walk. When I walk with Mary, the wrinkles on my face subside, if only temporarily. Temporarily is enough for me, though. I consider myself someone who doesn’t place much value in lengthy arrangements in general. I know how rare such things are, so I decide against even trying to pursue them. “Sometimes I feel like dying,” Mary says to me. I look up and try to feel her words in my mouth. “Me too,” I say, even though I know I don’t. “Why do you think that is, huh?” Mary raises her voice, clearly passionate about the subject. “Why do you think that all of us older people—that is, in our 40s, or 50s, or whatnot—feel like dying, even though we’ve only lived practically half our lives?”
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