Stones and Sand
I stand at an unnamed river— or at least I don’t see a sign. Later, I’ll find out I was on the official Blossom Trail in Fresno County. I should have known by the blankets of flowers covering the mountains . I watch my dog Max cool his paws in the river and slowly walk to the center of the river on his thirty-foot leash. He pauses when the river reaches his belly. Long swirls of fur are beneath him as his little dog-like fingers grip against stones and sand. This is the best I can I do. I wish I could let you run off leash, but I may never see you again. I’m not sure you’ll come back to me if I set you free. All these tests with love. Sometimes, you come off like a grumpy old man and can’t hear me when I call out your name--my words getting stuck in your long golden brown goatee. I from above this underwater world; it's safe here amongst the silent diligence of the river's microorganisms circling and bouncing off my feet.
The nature of hope, which includes the act of loving and letting go, is of the same. We become conditioned to either engage or avoid the conversations of the heart. You are a grown man who told me I was "...all he ever wanted, so it’s was best to let me go." I think about you working at your desk in Fresno, your back humped over, broken, and wonder if you can feel me think about you. I imagine that enough time passes you may forget about me, and like Max, your memory will soften and you'll become foreign to how freedom feels inside the heart.
I see a woman in a tree. She’s across the river standing on the largest branch. I envy and fear her at the same time. She’s leaning against the trunk of the tree; the rest of the tree hangs over the rapids. In her arms, she has a baby swaddled in a white blanket. A dangerous aerialist with rapids hissing below her. A man comes out of the brush carrying an armful of branches and logs. Everyone is doing what they need to in order to survive. What are you doing?
Water moves over the river rocks the size of heads of cabbage. I stare at the sparkles across the water until I don’t feel anything anymore, my vision turns to a muted white haze. This is how we’re supposed to feel when we pass time. Hours later, I rise from my couch to relive the tea pot from its hysteria. Max sleeps. His body, round, like a salamander.
