spring picnic

Christopher Collingwood

Spring picnics held the secrets of our youth, the lie of innocence that kept us running away
from any real choices, our souls captured by the tepid watercolour of the lake, trapped in the
ripple of a delusion. The tartan picnic blankets seemed to weave into the rolling hills, as the
days endured to our whim, allowing us to believe we all had a future. Dressed in our best
Sunday clothes, we blurred into a haze upon the lake, like a group of lingering souls; as the
aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, brothers, all flirted with each other’s dreams, whispering with
an affinity for all that wasn’t true. Finding our picnic baskets full, we could find nothing
wrong with the world, only the slightest ache from a miscut sandwich, or the spill of
lemonade, a distraction in the breeze of a memory. It was only by chance, in a passing glance
of the water, that I saw grandpa’s face reflecting against the dream. Like a stone, it seemed to
sink to the bottom of the world, peering at something deeper, something I didn’t understand.
Standing under a tree, his reflection remained in shadow, not blending into a haze like the rest
of us. In that moment I sensed something wrong with the world, and quickly ran up the hill to
where the sun was more pleasant; that was the first time I wondered if all our futures really
would come true.