The Lady of the Lake
2022 7th & 8th Grade Prose Winner
We had just left the airport. I remember we had to walk through these automatic doors
that scared me. They shut so fast, but nothing was going to keep me indoors any longer. Soon we
were in a rental car, driving to my grandparents’ house. The green grass and cool air of Ireland
wafted over me. The clouds covered the sky so that it looked like the whole world was covered
in a gray filter. This was my favorite place on earth. This is my favorite place on earth.
Though it feels like the cobblestone roads that wind through Dublin are permanently
imprinted on the souls of my feet, though I see that gray sky every year, though my blood is built
up of green, white, and orange, I have never belonged. I didn’t feel Irish. I don’t have an accent;
I don’t have a passport; I don’t have a story about bombs and the IRA. I don’t feel worthy of that
qualifier that belongs to the generations before me.
My uncle showed us this game that we would always play in the car. It was called “My
Cows.” The rules of the game were simple: when you see a cow, or a herd of cows, you say, “My
cows,” and those cows are now yours. It goes on like this until you see a graveyard. You then
call out "graveyard," and this kills everyone else's cows. This game works especially well in
Ireland because of its abundance of cows, and its abundance of graveyards. When we drove in
between towns we would accumulate tons of cows, but once we made it to a town it was a cow
massacre. Every town in Ireland has at least one church, and every church in Ireland has a
graveyard, so therefore every town has at least one graveyard. Cemeteries in Ireland are always
so pretty. The gravestones are old and covered in moss: the trees and grass are overgrown and
unkept, and the churches attached to the yard look like they have been there for hundreds of
years. This contradicts the traditional American cemetery: the grass cut and the gravestones lined
up in rows. They look too manufactured for my taste--too perfect.
Once all of our cows had died multiple times over, we reached my grandparents’
house. My grandparents have these thick Irish accents that outsiders wouldn't understand. They
dance through their sentences with a lilt that brings me back home. Those sentences are topped
with the cherries, “ahh surly,” and “ach aye,” phrases that I thought everyone's grandparents said.
Their house is built on a family farm, but you wouldn't know that by looking at it. All that's left
of those days is the worn down cobblestone remains of a farmhouse. I remember walking along
the dirt path in front of their house picking wild blackberries off of the vine. Their backyard is a
field that goes on for acres and ends in a small stretch of forest. Where the forest ends, there is a
lake filled with clear, still water. The gray sky is never boring; there are always clouds to stare at,
always something twisting and changing shape. We rest for the night and decide to go down to
the lake the next morning. I get up and put on my jeans and wellies. Wellies are basically
rainboots with a better name.
We start to take the journey down to the forest. It hadn't rained the night before, but the
grass was still dripping with dewdrops. The cool crisp air nipped at my face, turning it red, but I
welcomed it. I had always loved cool air. We made it to the forest but it was severely overgrown,
so my grandpa picked up a long stick to bat away the weeds. I picked up my own for no real
reason other than to be like him. We made our way through the thick pile of greenery. You would
think an overgrown forest would be scary, but it wasn't. It was more like the forest was hugging
you than chasing you. Vines fell from the long branches. It felt like an adventure, a safe one. The
mud on the ground was wet and slidy, but not too hard to walk on. It dispersed and turned into
rocks of all sizes, perfect for skipping. The trees now hung over the lake as if they wanted a
better look at the water. The lake was so clear and still that it looked like the sky had simply
copied and pasted itself. In its reflection, the overlooking tree branches were twice their actual
size; the ducks were not swimming but flying, and there was an identical girl staring back at me.
I stepped in. It was fine at first because my wellies protected me from the cold water
surrounding me. However, I kept walking farther in and though my mother warned me, I
continued until my boots were full of water, soaking my jeans. I was worried at first, but then I
realized that it didn't really matter. I was okay. I stopped and absorbed the beauty around me. I
bent over to look at the rocks under my feet. They were all so smooth; they looked as if each one
was meticulously placed there by hand. Some of them were so small that I felt if I stepped on
them in the exact right way, they would turn into sand. The biggest ones were rough and sharp.
Their peaks stuck out over the water surface like little mountains. I started to make ripples in the
water with my stick, watching the little mountains ripple out across the whole lake. Suddenly the
reflective tapestry was a surrealist, abstract art piece. I watched the lake regain itself and go back
to the still landscape. I made more ripples. The lake swished and swirled, then it went back to its
original state. I made more ripples.
I was so concentrated on the environment that I didn't notice my mom taking pictures and
my grandpa staring at me. Once I got out he called me “the lady of the lake,” and it stuck. Every
time I see him now he calls me that: “the lady of the lake.” He’s said it so much that I almost
forgot what it meant. I had a connection. I had something that linked me back to the one place I
wanted to be a part of; I can say I am Irish.
I have been back there a couple of times since. I always go back to “my lake.” I watch the
brush strokes of the painting sway and curve. But I always eventually have to leave. I go back to
the car, I get my cows, and then they die. I stare at the graves wondering if that would be me one
day. I go to the airport. I walk through the automatic door. I look out the window at the gray sky
and the big grass farms, and I dream about ripples in the water.