Mirrors of the Mind

Across the water, each hippopotamus believed the other was his completed self. One saw courage he lacked; the other saw calm she could never keep. They copied each other’s posture, passengers and even the tilt of their balloons until both were exhausted. The lighthouse keeper watched for weeks, then turned the beam between them.

For one bright second the water became transparent. Each saw the other trembling, carrying patched luggage and pretending not to be tired. Their perfect mirror had a private storm. They stopped copying.

One admitted fear; the other admitted anger. The riders rearranged their seats, and the balloons rose at different angles. They were still reflections, but not instructions. At dawn they crossed the water—not to become one another, but to meet.