July 10
“Like a photograph,” I say.
“Similar,” she says, “but imagine that you can walk around it, touch it, feel the contained, captured power of that water. It’s a gentle strength, but there is power in it. Years from now, people will capture this power.”
I stare at her. “You’re a…”
“Relax, Mademoiselle Minervudottir,” she says, smiling. “I’m not in trouble. Quite the opposite.” She reaches beside her and hands me something.
It’s a vanilla ice cream cone.
Before I can turn to thank her, Maris is gone. Only a slight warm spot on the bench marks that she was ever there.
I stare at the ice cream cone for a very long time. It doesn’t melt.
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