Page 2 of The Sun and the Moon
September is the end of the snowy owl breeding season, which is another reason spotting one here this time of year is such a surprise. It’s not migration time, really, which makes this bird’s behavior odd.
Wild.
Or maybe just lonely.
The thought pings a soft spot between my ribs, and I almost wince. Too close to home, a place I try to avoid in theory and in actuality. I haven’t been back to Kismet since Moira tried to convince me to take it over. Four years, the summer right after I finished my internship with the National Park Service and was offered a job at Crater Lake. She dismissed my achievement, claiming that Kismet was where I truly belonged.
“Just one,” I reply.
Now Devin’s eyes are scanning the ridge. We really can’t get much closer, which is why we’ve come up here at peak daylight. Snowy owls are diurnal, which means they hunt mostly during the day—though, of course, not always. This one may well be hunting, and we’ll have to wait to spot it until it returns to roost.
“Patience,” I say, my brow hooking upward. “Or you could just leave the camera if you’re bored.” He scowls, tightening his grip on the Canon. It’s the park’s, but he acts like he owns it. And,granted, he did come to this job by way of a photojournalism major, but how hard could it really be to point and click?
“All good,” he says, resting back in the camp chair he brought with him. He reaches over to unzip his pack, pulling out a bag of trail mix. “Hungry?”
With a shake of my head, I look back out.
Late September in Acadia looks like the beginning of an oil painting. Those first strokes of gold, red, umber sweep across the treetops, adding interest to the rolling green that leads out to the azure water of Somes Sound to the east and the ocean beyond.
That vast beyond is what drew me to Acadia. It’s an island, the farthest north of all our country’s national parks, easy to get lost in despite its small size.
College in Chicago wasn’t far enough away from the all-seeing eye of Mount Moira. Even though I paid for it myself with student loans and grants and a scholarship or two, even though I didn’t ask for anything—not even help with the semi-cross-country move—and even though I promised I’d call often, and did, for a while at least.
According to her, I was finding myself.
I had always been a searcher, but Iwouldbe back when I was ready to face my destiny. In her mind, that meant one day taking over at Kismet, learning to read the cards and the future for the people who came into the shop seeking guidance.
Chicago wasn’t far enough away. Crater Lake wasn’t, either.
No matter how far I got, I could still feel her eyes on my path. Probing, prodding, piercing—pushing me in the direction she wanted me to go regardless of my adamant refusal. It was only when I went no contact that I started to feel like I could live without looking over my shoulder.
Or, okay, not looking over my shoulder every day, at least.
Moira had her truth. A narrative for her life that centered on her intuitive ability and came at the expense of everything else.
Especially me.
Distance was the only solution.
I hear a buzzing sound coming from Devin’s direction.
“You need to get that?” I ask as the buzzing continues. He must get cell signal up here. He tugs his phone out and I see the wordMailluminated.
Devin’s whole family lives in Bar Harbor. They’re the kind of close-knit that makes my stomach twist up into knots. In each other’s business, at one another’s houses all the time.
Close. Real. A pack.
I’ve always felt more like a coyote forced out by her mange.
Only instead of mange, its emotional unavailability.
“Ma, I’m sort of on a stakeout right now,” he says in a stage whisper that will definitely scare the more timid wildlife into hiding. I motion for him to cut the call—with the universal kill signal—but he stands in a huff and hands over the camera before tromping away down the hillside. His voice fades down the trail, and I’m left with the sound of nothing but the subtle shift of evergreen needles overhead as a breeze drifts over the mountaintop.
I rest the camera on my knees, tightening my hair into a low pony. The black curls cascade over my shoulder, and I swipe them back, feeling their weight hit the space between my shoulders. I raise the camera to my eyes, peering through the viewfinder.
“Where are you?” I exhale, letting the words dissipate through my breath, out into the air around me. People may not be easy for me to connect with, but animals always have been.
Wild things understand each other.
