Emerging

It was 8am when the fog rescinded, leaving a low hanging overcast sky. Stark silhouette’s of buildings formed in the grey light, casting long unnatural shadows at the early hour.

I hadn’t seen the old town quarters since I was a kid, when they’d been condemned and sunk beneath the shoreline. Shallow water pooled around my ankles, each step threatening to suction my foot into place, or perhaps drag me under the murky waters. But I pressed on. I had to see my old neighborhood, my old street, my old house. I wondered if I’d find some remnants of my life inside. I trudged through the streets, scraps of memories floating past me like debris in the water. I remember the laughter of the neighborhood kids, the sweltering summers when we’d play basketball in the streets, until the humidity left us drenched in sweat. The sweet taste of ice cold lemonade, more sugar than juice. And the light reprieve of a cool shadow.

Here, there was no warmth. The whole town was cast in a chilly shade. The air filled my lungs, and sapped away heat from my fingertips. I could feel Lake Mackinac pressing against my rain boots, the rubber offering little insulation from the icy waters. The houses were all warped, waterlogged and peeling, but seemed intact. I could see stains where the paint was stripped from the wood, where mold and mildew was sure to grow if it wasn’t already present. The houses were unlit, and silent. They gave off the same presence as tomb stones, or maybe mausoleums.

The front door to my childhood home was open. The mahogany of the door was darker than I remembered. Was it because of the pale light from the distant sun behind the clouds? Or perhaps from years under the lake’s grasp? Or was there something else obscuring my memories?

The flood boards groaned beneath my weight. I stopped in my tracks, and slowed my breathing, waiting for the house to decide if it could support me, or if an errant footstep would send me cascading into the murky abyss below. When a moment passed, and it seemed like I was safe, I moved further inside. The air was heavy and humid, the stench of algae and lake muck stuck to every surface. Every surface was wet with dew, but miraculously, things I thought lost to the flood were perfectly preserved in place. A grandfather clock towered in the corner of the dining room, a collection of snow globes were arranged just as I’d left them on a shelf, and the dining room table was set, ready for a family of five to eat.

I was amazed, that despite the missing years, the house had acted as a perfect time capsule, dredging up long forgotten memories. But upon closer inspection, I found cracks in the visage. The snow globes had all been drained, shallow pools of faux snow settled on the bottoms of each one. The grandfather clock was stuck in time, the intricate gears showing thick layers of rust and corrosion. The shiny brass plates had dulled, and were mired in dirt. The table… The table seemed recently set.