Pagoda
by Susan Weber
When she said to be ready to grab my lunch before the raccoon got it, the staff at the visitor center had that look. Trust me, I’ve been there. That look.
I’m camped out on the pagoda’s lone bench. The world’s gone silent again. This time it’s not electrolyte imbalance. Or, if it is, I don’t feel the way I did in the terminal—abandoned, invisible, lost. I breathe out slowly. Found is the word for this.
Beyond the trees a matchbox plane with yellow wings glides into the sky. When a breeze blows my trail map off the bench, I grab it, startled, scanning for the rogue raccoon. I position my lunch strategically. The peeled egg sparkles with salt I sprinkled on this morning. I could have just rolled it on my arm out here in the mangrove swamp—who knew? I clutch a bagel oozing cream cheese. Strawberry yogurt will wait until both hands can do battle. My water bottle guards the embattled feast.
The map says mangroves cross terrestrial and marine environments. A middle ground I didn’t know existed. A place of solitude, long overdue. It feels good to stop.
It happens so fast. My eyes detect movement on the periphery. Food flies into my pack. I lunge at the water bottle tailspinning across the deck. From my crouch, panting, I leer in all directions.
A young woman stands at the railing, absorbed in the lakeside view. She wears a cottony shirt over lycra shorts, her brown limbs strong, her sandals scuffed. If she noticed my gymnastics, she doesn’t let on.
“I thought you might be a raccoon,” I say, returning to my bench.
“I guess I’d know if I was one.” Humor plays across her face. Pushing sweaty bangs from her forehead, she riffs onward. “Maybe it’s the spirit guide I didn’t know I had.” Somehow we’re in the middle of a longer conversation. Sisters on the front porch, roommates talking in the freshmen dorm.
But I’m not here for conversation, am I? I’ve had people on my radar, in my craw, under my skin since yesterday’s early morning take-off in Berlin. If I hunker down and scrutinize my map, she can have a look around and take her leave.
“Have a seat,” I say, moving over on the bench.
She sits and peels a banana. I extract the mangled lunch from my pack. She’s thinking out loud. I’m thinking how tired I am. Holding up my end of this is more than I can manage.
She’s on her third degree at the University of Florida. This time she’s going for a profession—I don’t catch which one—that will pay the bills if anything should happen to her partner. Here’s where I could say I kept up my nursing license all those years raising kids and empty nesting. I never used it but still it was a comfort. I just chew and swallow, stifling a yawn.
Fort Lauderdale is so spread out, she says. This is nice. I didn’t need to worry about holding up anything. My seat mate is on a roll. She grew up around here but she’d rather live where you don’t need a car. In Gainesville, students ride the bus for free. Some day she might live overseas. Do I say I’m just back from Europe and how enriching it was? Not really.
We relax into comfort zones. At her age or any age my natural reserve would keep a stranger at arms length. Especially one who doesn’t say much. Her confidence takes me back to college where the future means a world of open books. In this I recognize the joy of facing forward.
The drone of bugs prompts me to check the time.
“By the way, I’m Kavita,” she says, watching me pocket the phone. I tell her my name and we talk about meanings. Mine is Hebrew for lily. Hers means poem in Sanskrit. When I say I have to go catch a plane, we almost shake hands. Mine are sweaty like the rest of me, I say. We laugh. She says she’s sweaty too, would I settle for a hug?
How illogical and charming. Our embrace is, well—to call it warm on a day like this would be redundant.
“You never know.” I shoulder my pack, standing. “Maybe we’ll meet again someday.”
“Maybe we’ll meet right here,” she says, grinning from the bench.
When I get to the paddles stuck through slats, I look down over the railing. The Spanish speaking woman’s in the kayak now. She gestures that her boyfriend is out on the trails. I think she’s either grumpy with the heat or with him. It’s another conversation I’m crossing through, here in a coastal biome I never knew existed. Here, where adapting is the norm.
Photo Susan Weber CC BY-SA 4.0