Null Pointer
17.9. Water's Edge
Another evening saw her standing vigil at the water’s edge again. She wasn’t sure what brought her out here night after night, watching. Hoping. He hadn’t left by water. When he returned—if he returned—it wouldn’t be by water, either. He wasn’t to the west, and yet, time after time, she found herself on the shore, scanning the horizon.
She remembered the days when she’d come to this same spot to admire the scenery. To watch the ripples and the waves on the water. To focus on the way those ripples made the dark reflections of the trees shimmer, the same way the wind shook through the branches of the big pine tree and elm that rose over all the other trees. The waves and current were to the water what the wind was to the air; the proof was there in every reflection of the trees over the water.
She remembered the sunsets she’d watched, trying to name the colors and realizing that there weren’t words to describe the intersection of fire and color and cloud, or the muted yet somehow still brilliant colors where the sunset reflected on the water. Sometimes, when she was younger, she had imagined herself the princess from her favorite movie, and wondered what it would be like to paint with the colors nature used, instead of the weaker colors in her art kit, or the bottles of paint at school.
The sun would paint no masterpiece of fire and color tonight. Clouds were rolling in, low and heavy. They were already beginning to obscure the sun and would complete their mission long before the sun reached the horizon. She wondered if it wasn’t a metaphor nature had put on display just for her, doubt clouding her hope, obliterating it long before the events she stood here waiting for came to pass.
She knew it was silly. Knew the sun still reached the horizon, still set, whether it did so in a shroud of clouds or in a blaze of brilliance. Knew that, when she stood here tomorrow, bathed in the reflected glow of reds, pinks, and oranges, she’d wonder then, too, if nature put on the display for her, to remind her that hope is beautiful, no matter what happens after that.
The clouds had hidden most of the light; if she didn’t go home soon, it would be dark. She knew she should bring a flashlight with her when she came out to do this, but could never bring herself to do so, no matter how many times she’d tripped over a tree root she couldn’t see in the darkness after the sun disappeared.
She ran a hand through her hair and turned away from the water. Beside her, the dog, who faithfully stood watch over her every time she came out to stand watch over the water and the sun, looked up at her, his tail wagging gently. She buried her fingers in the fur of his head for a moment and then sighed. She sat down, wrapping her arms around his sturdy neck. He was as patient in his vigil as she was in hers. Everyone in her family seemed to think she needed looking after, as if she couldn’t take care of herself, right down to the dog. But, unlike the human members of her family, he didn’t judge her, just came out to stand beside her at the water’s edge. That was a welcome relief, as was this escape from her family’s watchful eyes. She knew the truth: if the dog weren’t here, some member of her family would have followed her out here, and their company wouldn’t have been silent. They’d have wanted to tell her that watching the westward horizon every night wasn’t going to bring him to her. They’d have wanted to give her advice—to move on, or to go after him, or just to come in. They never seemed to understand that sometimes she just wanted quiet, just wanted to be alone. But the dog understood, keeping his silent watch at her side.
She smiled as the dog leaned his warm bulk into her side. Why couldn’t people be this easy? Why couldn’t the people in her life just be with her without demanding that she be anything other than what she was? Why couldn’t the people in her life just offer warmth without expecting her to feel differently than she did? Why couldn’t the people in her life be as constant, as steady, as faithful as the dog that kept vigil with her each evening? Why was is it that she could stand on the shore in silent vigil every night, but couldn’t be as patient with the people in her life as she was with the sun? Why was it that she could bury her hands in the dog’s fur and appreciate the comfort and company, but she had to drive away everyone else who made the same offer? Why was it that she detested any attempts to make her change who she was, but still wanted everyone else to change to fit who she wanted them to be?
Why had she let him leave? Why hadn’t she followed? Why didn’t she go after him now? Why did she wait for him to come to her? For all she knew, he kept his own vigil, waiting for her, and she could be the one to appear on the horizon as he stood, watching. Would he run to her? Would he be frozen in shock? Would he welcome her, grab her up in his arms, tell her how much he’d missed her, how much he loved her? Or would he ask her why she’d come, tell her he’d moved on, tell her he wasn’t waiting for the past to repeat itself, but moving boldly, bravely, into his future, a future that didn’t include her?
He wasn’t cruel; he wouldn’t twist the knife in her heart. But it had been a long time, and they’d never made promises of the future to each other. There was no guarantee the reunion she dreamed of, when she stood vigil on the shore, hoping against hope he’d appear on the horizon, would ever come to be. He might be happy, for all she knew.
Someday, she might be, too, she thought, watching the waters ripple as they faded down from afternoon golds to nighttime blacks.
She envied the water in its certainty. It had to do nothing more than follow where the current took it, be shaped by wind and earth and time. It would flow on toward the ocean with unmatched steadiness, undeterred by the activity around it, nor by any obstacles in its path. How often she wished, at its edge, that her life could be so simple, so pure.
But it wasn’t, and it never would be. Her life was whitewater at best. Maybe that was why she was drawn to this shoreline, where the water ran quietly enough to see the reflection of the trees, to see how currents were the wind of the water, to know that still waters absorbed and reflected in the same instant, taking in all that was cast upon it, but reflecting back its own image of what was given. Maybe she craved the stillness and simplicity, knowing she would never have them anywhere but here. Maybe that was why she couldn’t leave, even for him.