where the wild things are
When we go to Monroe, we always visit Black Bayou, and it’s like walking in on somebody telling a secret – like everything comes to a great hush just as your engine clicks off.
We walk quietly on the boardwalk and wonder. What glides beneath the glass or frond waits to unfurl? What feeds on the hovering greenery, the floating bulbs, the down-reaching water roots? What mud covers cold teeth; what leather rests over silent prehistoric eyes?
My mother-in-law has always imagined dinosaurs tromping up to their knees in that lake. I imagine that dinosaurs never stopped existing there. They’ve just become better hiders.
The unknown, the fast flashing lights swishing in the sky, the tall angel in a purple-detailed robe Grandpa saw at the foot of his bed … get me a bag of popcorn, I could watch and listen to this kind of thing for days.
I treat Black Bayou like I did Loch Ness, with my eyes peered in a hard skim over the water’s surface. One day I’m going to see something amazing. This whole world is going to have the curtain pulled back, and right there, in real life – just on the other side of the veil, I’ll see a blazing machine rolling under the One and Only God, and I’ll hear angels’ choruses ring like mermaids through infinity.