It's raining. Softly, just a mist more than anything else, but it comes down enough to see the ripples on the waters' surface. The almost inaudible plip of water dripping off of the newly green leaves onto the dead leaves below is the only sound-save for my footsteps as I slowly make my way to the lake.

"Lake." A grandiose word for where I find myself, actually. More of a pond, really. There never were any fish in there. Not even when I was young, and Marie... No. I can't let myself go there.

I stand there, fishing pole in my left hand, tackle box in my right. Turning my face up to the heavens, I can feel the water caressing my cheeks. At least I can't feel the tears.

Fog rises from the surface of the lake, a testament to the chill of the morning. Opening my eyes, I can see that because of the clouds, the rain, there will be no sunshine soon-if at all-this day. I sit down in my usual spot (halfway between the gnarled old oak and the lone spruce) and prepare my hook.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*plonk* The sound of worm hitting water is solid-there's never anything different about it, regardless of where you are. My lips turn upwards slightly-ever so slightly. That's the only thing that doesn't change.

I look around, my vision fogged by the amount of water on my glasses. Amazing how a place even as far away from the rat race as this place is can change.

The tire that hangs off of the oak's bough anymore looks rotted, not to mention the rope that holds it there, gently swaying in the breeze. Rope-scars have worked their way up and down the old branch. The old dock where Mar....where my friends and I used to leap into the water, laughing-all rotted. I doubt if a mouse could pass there without it crumbling into dust.

From my pocket I grab my pole-holder. Forty years of fishing and I still haven't learned what that thing is called; Marie always laughed at that. I put my fishing rod into the holder and go to stand near the oak.

A solid tree. It seemed to be taller when I was a child. As I walk around it I can see the scars of pocket-knives, hearts with initials in them. The rain comes down harder now. I look up at the bough with the rope-scars on it, and I can't help but feel a tear as it trickles down my cheek.

I zoom over the landscape, ignoring the small cuts and scratches that I get from the errant branches that stick out over the path. Insignificant, they are-and not near enough to keep me away from the Lake.

As I get closer, I slow down. The laughter peals across the water and carries through the wood. I can make out the voices....there's Terry, and I think I can hear June, softly in the background. And yes, there's Marie.

The sun shines brightly down as I step into the clearing made by the Lake. The light shines off of the water, the leaves are as green as green can be. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse the arc of Marie's body as she flies from the tire. The graceful trail as she cuts through the air, twisting her body to dive into the water.

She comes up laughing, as she always does. Her clothes cling to her body as she runs over to give me a hug. "Jason! I almost thought you weren't going to come today!"

The rain is coming down harder. My legs hurt-how long have I been standing here? I look at my pole-an exercise in futility, as there never have been fish here. Forty years I've fished this pond, and not one did I catch. She always laughed at my stubbornness, but realized that a man just has to have some time to himself. "You'll die of a heart attack the day you catch anything but a cold out there," she'd say. "Ayup. But I'll be a happy angel."

It was a Saturday ritual, the four of us coming together at the Lake. Every Saturday since we were in fourth grade, we'd walk, run, or ride our bicycles out here and swim when it was warm, skate when it wasn't. Terry and June eventually got married and went away, but even then they called. We just couldn't stay away from the Lake.

It's been three weeks, Marie. Three weeks without you, when I haven't gone more than three days before.

There's a crack of thunder-looks like the sky's going to let loose before too long. Doesn't matter, really. Four hours is my time limit out here on the Lake, and four hours it will be, rain or no rain.

I climb up on the tire, then shimmy up the rope. So far, I'm the only one with the bravery-or stupidity-to jump off of the bough.

"What the hell?" The bobber went under! I look at my pole in disbelief, and the end of it is bent almost double-I'll be damned.

Inching out to the end of the branch-it doesn't bend under my weight, never has; this old tree has been through more than piddly little me jumping off of it-I look down at the three upturned faces below. Terry, urging me on as always-he never could work up the courage. June, looking off into the sky-she always was the dreamer. And Marie, my Marie-the only one that showed concern.

I run over to the pole and take it in shaking hands. The rain is really coming down now, sheets of water pummeling the surface of the Lake.

The very edge of the bough. My knees shake a little bit-it's a goodly way up, about 20 feet. Another glance down at my three friends, a jaunty wave, and I launch myself into the air.

The pole doesn't want to straighten-whatever I've caught, it won't let go, and it doesn't want to be brought to the shore. It's not a snag or a turtle, though. It's fighting me something fierce.

Floating on the air, it seems like I could just fly away. I stretch my arms out, and tuck myself around to do a swan dive. I begin my descent, speeding toward the water. Only then do I see the stump. Never saw it before, never hit it while goofing around in the water with my friends. Only then did I see it.

I think I sprained something in my shoulder-my arm doesn't want to cooperate with me anymore. I'll get this fish yet.

I yell. Nothing coherent, but just a sound of fear as I twist my body around to try and avoid it. I can hear someone scream-Marie? June? I don't know.

Hard to breathe, must be the humidity. Damn, this thing is tough. Can't get an edge on it. Pond shouldn't hold this big of a fish-ain't big enough. I sit down hard on the ground; my legs just don't want to support me anymore.

There's a sharp pain in my shoulder, and I go limp. I feel a tugging at my legs, and the last thing I see before I pass out is Marie's face. She's crying. I can feel her tears on my face.

The pole is dragged into the water, away from the limp fingers that lie on the shore. Sightless eyes stare at the heavens, and rain falls upon the weathered face.

©1999, Cameron Wm. Akers