Across the Water

Sarah often found herself here on her walks outside base. Scientific research in a remote Arctic facility felt a lot more romantic on paper when she envisioned life after grad school. She had KNOWN she was someone who loved time alone—people, she was convinced, were her least favorite thing about life on Earth. Why did she always return here? The dock that represented the portal back home? Across the icy horizon line was a warm place she could remember, a fireplace and a book, a cup of coffee. However many thousand miles that way was a little box she had called her room. However many thousands of miles that way was the regular old patterns of a little life she recalled with a fondness she didn’t have when she was actually living it. Now the ice and snow swallows up the curiosity she had about an independent future, one where she got to focus only on her work, a future where those pesky humans weren’t in the way. Ironically, it seemed to Sarah, that no matter where she went there was a human that was always following her. Even in the most distant of places Sarah saw herself in the distorted reflections of the ice around her. Whether it was way out there past the horizon, right here on base, or anywhere in between, Sarah realized she was going to have to learn how to love humans. Sarah realized she was going to have to learn to love herself. Home isn’t across the water—she knew it was wherever she stood.