I hadn’t planned to go back. Not really. But time has a way of folding over itself, and a work trip brought me within driving distance of the reserve where I’d once spent a summer volunteering, twenty seven years ago. I was nineteen then, full of ideas and ignorance. All I’d wanted was escape. What I found instead was connection, with animals and a quieter version of myself.

One of them stood out. Her name was Marula. She was the youngest of the herd and endlessly curious, trailing after me during feeding rounds, curling her trunk around my water bottle, flapping her ears like she understood every word I said.

I hadn’t thought of her in years. Until I stood at the old fence line and saw her, larger now, of course, towering and weathered, but unmistakably her. Something in her posture shifted. And then, impossibly, she walked straight toward me.

When You’re Seen Without Explanation

There’s something deeply humbling about being remembered by a creature who owes you nothing. Who doesn’t need to pretend, or flatter, or follow convention? Marula didn’t care about the years that had changed me. She didn’t ask what I’d become. She simply saw me, as if the boy who had once fed her mango slices was still right there, underneath the adult I wore like armor.

I stayed by the fence longer than I planned. She didn’t leave. We just stood there, breathing the same slow air, old souls in a new chapter. Eventually, she turned back toward the trees, the rest of the herd waiting.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.