Sitting on the Dock

by: Jaimie Gleissner


I wish you could see the moon shining full over the gill-netters. It's nine-o-clock at night and starting to get dark, yet a few months ago I never thought I'd see the stars. The mountains are fading to sleep, and I will be soon to follow as the fresh water from Wolverine Creek flows visibly through the bay. I hope you can feel the solace that I feel lying here on the dock. My summer home hosts a number of other people. Still, solitude is abundant. Pines growing close to the shore fade into silhouettes with moonbeams playing between the branches. The image is fixed in my mind like the far away cornfields of Northern Illinois. Clear nights, like this one, are rare in Southeastern Alaska.

The season is slowly closing at a rapid pace, and though I cannot wait to see my family, part of me dreads starting over again. My hometown isn't mine anymore, yet so many people expect to see the same person who walked out a year ago. How can I expect them to understand that I've changed? They've changed too; I knew they would. Though I thought I hit pause before I left, each time I come home reminds me that stillness doesn't actually exist. Let me lay on the dock a little longer while I think of all the ways I've failed before I remember my triumphs. A moment of silence – if you will – for all the people I've hurt or wronged, all the times I've made a fool of myself and jeopardized my credibility,  and every time I've let my childish rage get the best of me.

Despite my shortcomings, being at the lodge reminds me of how much I've done in a short amount of time. I've seen the moon hanging over a bay that can only be reached by plane or boat. I've worn shorts to the grocery store while gazing at snowcapped mountains and tested the waters of both coasts. All in all, I've accomplished my goal to live fully and aimlessly wherever I can find work. Still, I feel something missing. There's a void that my travels have not yet filled: a place for my heart to call home.