Childhood Rivers

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"The mark of a really great writer is that he or she gives expression to what the masses of mankind think or feel without knowing it. The mediocre writer simply writes what everyone would have said."

-G.C. Lichtenberg

Childhood Rivers

    I envision the slow, rhythmic beat of a great blue heron's wings over the still waters of an Eastern river. I see how diffused sunlight plays on leafy banks. I hear the gentle strokes of paddles and the hollow resonance of clunking aluminum underfoot.
    I can taste humidity on winds blowing smells of loam and maple and honeysuckle. I can feel the warmth of the afternoon mingle with the warmth of a bond. It's a bond shared among old friends; friends who, like the river, have traveled winding paths.
    But the river draws them back. It is baptism, and it is communion. It's a place where they can shed the minutes and miles that have grown between them, and they can be as they were. The river is their temple. It is their classroom. It is their bond.
    As boys, they carried giant inner tubes along an old railroad to a deep, motionless pool. Where an icy spring emerged from the leaves, they released themselves to the river’s gentle whims. Time stood still.
    As their world grew, a rocky perch far above the meanders gave them perspective. They recognized the river for its parts. They saw that the fish fed the eagle, that the eagle discarded parts for the otter. They saw that the forest filtered the rain and that the river delivered fertile soils to its banks.
    They saw that for the natural balance to remain, they must protect the parts and pieces that make the river whole.
    It took time for the lessons to sink in, but they eventually saw their friendship as a reflection of the river. They recognized their bond for its parts, and they realized they must protect the parts and pieces to maintain the bond over the minutes and miles that life placed between them.
    One of the pieces of that friendship they chose to protect was the river. It is their temple. It is their classroom. It is their bond.
    I envision the slow, rippling waves in the wake of an aluminum keel. I hear the summer wind wrestling with nearby sycamore trees and oak trees and maple trees.
    I can feel the contentment of the afternoon mingle with the contentment of a bond. It’s a bond shared among old friends; friends who, like the river, have traveled winding paths.