57 Turtles

Sometimes I see photos of men I once loved.

And in these photos they are standing with their wife and their little sweet babies.

Sometimes these men knew I loved them - who am I kidding? No, they didn’t.

When I see their babies I have a very strong feeling. A feeling that maybe those babies could have been mine.

Now, don’t get me wrong, those little ones are their own beings and their own souls and their own lights. And those sweet souls were born (in this case - acknowledging families come in many different forms) from a man and a woman that I have deep reverence for. My intention here is not to take anyone's life away or claim it as my own. 

I just, simply, plainly, intensely wonder about that road that I did not take. The road has so many forks and so many intersections and at some points it feels more like a parking lot. Options options, decisions decisions. At other points the road seems to disappear beneath my own feet and it feels more like a bog. A wet bog. Less options. More stillness. A thick forest canopy up above. Some discomfort. But also, some quiet. 

Ah, what have I done? Why do I continue to swirl around and linger in this wet bog? The road must pick up again somewhere around here. Someone else must have traveled this way before, yeah? Like that one portage up near Iron Lake somewhere… I should look it up. The map and the real world aren’t totally jiving out there. You hit this pond/swamp formed by some crafty beavers and there's old rotted half standing trees everywhere and you paddle around and around them and you.. just… cant.. find… the portage out of that swamp. I remember crawling out of my boat in several different spots hoping, wondering, wishing that I had found it? Or maybe it's just through the trees a little bit over here… And I couldn’t even tell you now where that portage actually is. But it’s not where I ever thought it was going to be. I guess it’s a good reminder, though.. That even when I was there and even now when I am not there I can never remember the way. But. There. Is. A. Way. Maybe I’m just not meant to remember it. 

There are versions of me with kids. And a husband. 

And we got family photos taken and we all kind of sort of matched. 

We look really nice. And we’re happy. And yeah, it’s hard… but we’re happy. 

And we’re on a road. And we took the bridge over the bog. 

But, I mean, I dunno. 

Maybe the bog looks kind of intriguing from up there. 

Paddling around an old Spruce stand, seeing 57 turtles, taking a break from searching and having a handful of yogurt covered raisins in the boat. Leaning back on your packs, catching the clouds. Being in that bog and not having anywhere else to be. 

That doesn’t sound so bad. 

And it’s important to remember.. that’s a version of me, too.