I remember sitting in my high school U.S. history class and seeing this scene for the first time. I remember feeling so confused when Uncas took Alice in his arms and stroke her hair and put his lips against her forehead. I remember a clear mixture of confusion and expectation. Where was this coming from? And also: why can’t I stay here with them for a bit? Just see them be alone? Maybe they’d talk. Smile. Share a secretive little piece of serenity while their relatives make impassioned speeches and forget they exist.

Their entire relationship is just that: you feel like you’ve not been fed enough information, enough longing stares and love declarations. You feel like you’ve been robbed of a proper story about forbidden love during wartime. You feel constantly irritated by the fact that they are not the center of attention, Nathaniel and Cora are, and feel like you’ve missed out on something so much more meaningful. Something so much richer. They are the heart of this film. You only once or twice put your hand on your chest and remember it’s there. That it’s beating. Keeping you alive.

That year was so pleasant. I wish I could revisit it now. Just hop momentarily into a time where my only concern was that not enough people loved Uncas and Alice as much as I did. Back when I was annoying and ignorant and content. Now I keep myself busy. I am determined to do and not dream. Because ideas, dreams, are as fleeting as writing with a stick in soft sand. I want to make something off of what I see. I angrily etch it all into wood and rock and pavement. I’m so afraid that they’ll disappear. Be washed away. That I’ll forget them.

And I loved dreaming. I dreamed of everything. Dreamed of Uncas and Alice. Of what they could have said to each other when they were under that waterfall. Now, I write on their tongues and say, hoarsely, “Talk.”

THANK YOU FOR READING!

Copyright © Blanca Parga 2021