Wrong Mud

The old lake had been perfect. Rosa knew every reed by name. Not their actual names. Reeds don't have names. But Rosa had given them names and that was the same thing.

Then came the day all the flamingos lifted into the sky in one long pink cloud and didn't come back down until everything was different.

The new lake was: Wrong.

The water was the wrong colour. Not bad wrong. Just — not right. Not the colour Rosa knew in the place behind her eyes where home lives.

The sky was wider here. Too wide. Wide in a way that made Rosa feel very small and very pink and very noticeable.

The mud was different. The old mud had been exactly the right squish between her toes. This mud was: Squishier. Colder. Unfamiliar in a way that is hard to explain unless you have felt it yourself.

Rosa stood at the edge of the new lake. On one leg. The way flamingos do. The way she had always done at the old lake where it felt natural and easy and hers. Here it felt like standing on one leg in front of strangers.

Which it was.

All around her the other flamingos were already — together. They moved in groups. They called to each other in voices that knew each other. They found the good spots with the ease of birds who had been here before or who were simply better at new places than Rosa was.

Rosa did not find a good spot. Rosa stood at the edge and watched and missed: The reeds she had named. The right-coloured water. The sky that was exactly wide enough. The mud with the right squish. And Flo.

Flo most of all. Flo who had stood on one leg next to Rosa at the old lake for two whole seasons. Flo who had migrated to a completely different lake entirely. Flo who was probably standing in perfect mud right now without Rosa.

Rosa put her other foot down. Both feet. In the wrong mud. Under the too-wide sky. Next to the wrong-coloured water.

A small flamingo appeared next to her. Also on two feet. Also at the edge. Also watching the others with the look of someone who had misplaced the feeling of belonging and couldn't remember where they'd left it.

They stood there. Both of them. In the wrong mud.

"The mud is weird," said the small flamingo. "Very weird," said Rosa.

The small flamingo looked at the water. "It's the wrong colour," she said. "I know," said Rosa. A pause. "I'm Cee," said the small flamingo. "Rosa," said Rosa.

They stood there a bit longer.

The mud was still cold. The sky was still too wide. The water was still not quite right.

But the edge of the lake felt slightly less like the edge of the lake.

Rosa lifted one foot. Just one. The way flamingos do. Cee lifted one foot too.

They stood there on one leg each in the wrong mud under the wide sky next to the almost-right water — two flamingos at the beginning of something that didn't have a name yet.

It wasn't home. Not yet. But it was the first small piece of the thing that home is made of.