The Ring of Fire by Carol Creswell

The Ring of Fire by Carol Creswell

The Ring of Fire around the lake signaled the beginning of autumn. The air was cool, the trees were changing. With heavy heart, she fled down to the shore once more. She had left here so many years ago.  Her long-ago lover made it clear their future together was never to be.

Seeing the lake in the moonlight brought it all back. They had sat on the shore in the darkness at Kershaw Park on that long-ago evening. He had said “goodbye” the night before Labor Day. The fireworks flared over the water as the pain of that parting flared in her heart.

She had hugged her landlord goodbye, had given away the cat, and had accepted a position in Denver,Colorado. For twenty years, she had made her home in the mile high city, so far from the forests and lakes of upstate New York.

The lake always, always called to her. As she skied the Colorado Mountains, or white- water rafted on the canyon-sided rivers, she remembered Johnny.  His handsome face. His gentle arms.  His look of regret.  His farewell.

She lit her rosy flare and added it to the hundreds lining the shore for all the length of Canandaigua Lake, 18 miles of pristine glacier-melted water.  It was nine o’clock, the traditional beginning of the ritual. For 60 years, the candles and bonfires and flares that commemorated the Indian farewell and gratitude to Mother Earth’s bountiful Harvest had been lit on this August evening. The fires hailed the coming sleep of Father Winter.

Her life had been good, she reflected.  She was accepted and liked in Denver  She had found a new love and had 15 years of happiness until Heaven took him away.  Never a mother, she worked with children as a volunteer and sang in her church choir. She’d published a few articles and had some success as an artist.  But always the hills and lakes of New Statehood called her back.

And now, again, she sat by the shore and watched the flaring bloom of the fireworks reflected in the calm dark waters.  The flares flickered all along the shore.  Little boats plied the waters, north and south, their winking lights showing their progress on the lake.  Each shore-lining weeping willow looked like a bloom, itself, in the reflected light.  She sipped her coke and watched for a while.

And then, as she got up to go and folded her blanket, she saw him sitting in the old familiar place by the picnic tables.  “Oh it can’t be him,” she said. But as he came toward her, his smiling mouth framed by a silvering mustache, his tall, slender body just a little more portly, she knew she was involved in  a miracle right here on the shore.

“Libby,” he breathed as he kissed her, “It’s been so long, too long, oh please let’s go and talk.”

Hand in hand, they headed for the old Colonial Inn, its bright lights gleaming. They reflected off something he wore around his neck. It was a ring on a chain. She couldn’t believe it. After all these years, he was wearing the ring she had given him 20 years ago. It gleamed like a ring of fire.

THE END