Mother has not, but the changes within me have made her quieter. We will never be the same. The threads binding her to me have frayed; we sense each other still, but at a distance, as if through memory. I am still there to keep the soil acidity just so, to bring about the death of a goshawk chick that isn’t ever meant to fly. Both make me cry; both make me smile. And she nods when I do these things, before going back to gathering what solar warmth she can into her breast before winter.
I walk home through the woods. As changed as I am, I can’t completely escape the creature I was. The birds and insects still flee from my footsteps. The bloodthirsty insects look elsewhere for salty red comfort. But I’d welcome a bite. It would be a distraction, having myself consumed by something else for a change.
The house is quiet and still, and the breeze plays dully against the eaves. I listen quietly and hear nothing. It’s been like this for months now. No whispers on the wind anymore. I reach for the cottage door when I trip over something on the slate step.
It’s half a dead lake trout, scaled and cleaned.
I throw open the door and race from room to room in my fish-bloodied boots, but no one is here. I run outside, frantically looking left and right, listening.
All I hear are the waves of the lake, lapping on the rocks by the shore. So I tear through the back path that leads to the lake, under the canopy of verdant leaves. I crunch mercilessly on the millipedes whose scurrying legs aren’t quick enough. I dodge the thimbleberry bushes and push away the foliage, running as quickly as I can.
The dappled sunlight on the lake water blinds me at first. A shadow, ten feet out, soothes my eyes.
Someone stands in the lapping waves, wearing a sagging gray hoodie. His bare feet are immersed, pant legs rolled up to muscular calves. Hands in pockets, he hears the sounds of the brush being stepped upon behind him.
Hector turns and sees me.
And the world around us disappears.