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Crystalline And Bright
I stood, staring down into the teal-blue river water, ignoring the chatter behind my back. Snow covered the ground around me, hiding bumps and ridges, soothing out sharp edges. To my right, the dark stone shadow of the bridge stood like a guardian, watchful, alert. Snow rimmed its edges; every so often some shifted in a sudden breeze and landed in the quiet river below with a gentle splash.
The willows on the far bank slept quietly under their snow blanket, their green sappy smell hidden by the cold, sharp scent of the snow.
Stop.
Start again.
It wasn’t actually winter. It was early spring, with the grass green and new, the sound of a lawnmower buzzing in the distance and the scent of cut grass drifting on the wind. Moss covered the shadowed side of the old stone bridge, and willows stretched their fingers to the slow-moving, drowsy little river that bordered the grounds of the school.
A butterfly flittered past, white wings speckled with black like soot.
The world felt fresh, and green, and full of promise.
I was still ignoring the chattering behind me.
Stop.
Start again.
It’s summer, and the air is swelteringly hot. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, pools under my arms, under my awkward breasts. The river in front of me is milky-blue, gentle, quiet, and I long to strip off my shirt and jeans and throw myself into the water.
It’s not just the breathtakingly sharp cold of the icemelt I’m craving; it’s the feeling of being clean.
The air stinks of a fish that Lander left out on the bank near the bridge, rotting to pieces in the high temperatures.
I’m still ignoring the chatter.
Stop.
Let’s try once more.
It’s autumn—of course—and the willows have turned yellow, their little leaves dropping into the milk-water, eddying slowly away from the shadow of the bridge.
Behind me, the emerald lawn of the old school buildings is ringed with gem-toned maples, butter-leafed poplars, silver-and-gold birches. Occasionally, the wind catches stray leaves and flings them into the pond.
I can still hear the voices behind me.
***
All of these pictures are true, and none of them are.
Not precisely, not uniquely; they’re all composites, the merging and piecing together of hundreds of memories of similar experiences, of all the times I stood on the river bank and stared longingly into its depths, imagining myself a naiad with a secret home to return to, somewhere people loved me.
These images have to be composites, because for every time I was down at the river, I was focusing only on two things: ignoring the voices, and watching the water.
All the other details, the little bits of specificity that allow me to recall the place in so much explicit detail? I never noticed them at the time.
And so I have to piece them together, collage-fashion, or else I have nothing to say. Nothing to see.
Nothing except the water, milky-blue that occasionally, in the right light, at the right time of day, flashed teal and came alive.
Table Of Contents
- Crystalline And Bright
- Love In The Time Of Corona
- Moon And Morning
- As Time Whirls Slowly Past
- Across A Corpse-Like City
- More Than Mushrooms