Sunday, May 15, 2005

The river is high.

Frothy, cappuccino colored, filling the banks, rushing rushing to the next river--in this case, the Wabash. I sat on the gravelly shore beside deep greenly banks last night in admiration.

Have I written about the river I loved in college? There was a park by Greg's house and I'd go there sometimes by myself and sit on this deck high above the river and watch it on its way. It was more than metaphor; it was my life I was watching, flowing flowing downstream. I felt the rush of it in my veins. Which was river? Which was me?

Well.
Twenty years later, we've differentiated. The river is a channel of water, a beautiful thing, music, sparkle, last night playful and deeper than usual. But it's not part of me, and I miss it. It is 2 yards, one field and one strip of woods away, and I barely ever visit. Easily remedied, I think. I'll go court it. Get to know it again because I need it, like so many things green, brown, earthbound, to remember who I am.

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