The grass is deep by the river, very green, very lush. It isn't November grass by a long shot; this is the grass of July. Making my way down the overgrown path, I finally sit down in some gravel and collect flat stones. I'll skip them, a la Amelie, across the shallow water. When I was in college, I'd sit by the river entranced by the deepness, the coolness. Flowing to the Great Lakes, the St. Lawrence Seaway, ending in the greater sea. I felt my life in that river, rising in flood and ebbing at times, ever flowing to some great source. Now I look at a river and see a river. A beautiful conduit of water. But I don't feel it. Something has been lost.