In chapter 12 of #29Gifts I read a piece of prose at a friend's birthday party. My editor chose to only include part of the piece. Here is the full story.
River Rhythm by Cami Walker
The green river before me makes me forget for a moment all we've done to it. When you see it from a distance, out of its current context, you miss out on its shame. The reddish-orange rusty hubcaps and sunken beer cans. It's sad, sad molecules now something closer to H2WhoKnowsWhat. The swooshing sound of flowing wind on water that helps to drown the sorrow it surely must feel when it remembers what it used to be. Underneath the surface, squishy bright green algae tries to cover the scars left by endless feet wading at its shore.
The yellow leaf that drifts by on top is a symbol of the river's hope that someday soon we'll all wake up and stop filling it full of muck. Even though I didn't know this river at its birth, I have a sense of its former self. Awash with happy flow. Crystal clear with life. Its memory held inside the rocks rubbed smooth with time and the tallest trees that have stood witness to its toils.
I sit here wondering what this river thinks about those who play at its side. Does it look up and see the little blonde boy with the red shorts and sunburned nose and feel proud of the joy it's giving him? Does it giggle when it tickles my feet? Does it wonder at the crazy family with its baloney sandwiches and fritos? Does it marvel at the lovers who've come to make out at its banks? Does it see all this happy activity and think the sacrifices it has been forced to make are maybe all worth it? Its pained state somehow ok?
I lean back on my elbows and close my eyes to ponder what this river knows about each of us. I bet it can testify to more of our lives than we'd believe possible. I bet it remembers the aqua blue headband you wore the day you met your husband on the bridge upstream. It could probably tell you the secret ingredients in your grandma's tart apple pie that she used to bring to the family picnics by the big oak tree on the north shore. I bet the river even knows that you used to steal packs of bazooka bubble gum from the corner store if the cashier wasn't looking when you went with your dad on a quick beer or cigarette run -- you in your yellow and black polka-dot swimsuit with the ruffle across the butt and river sand between your bare toes.
As I dose on the riverbank and let the flowing water ease my sadness, I think to myself what a perfect companion it really is to us all. It listens but doesn't judge. It understands but doesn't preach. It embraces us in familiar acceptance and reminds us that when we're all gone back to the earth and the light that made everything out of nothing, it will still be here. Flowing. Singing our song.
