Go To Town

The spring warmth filled these creeks and rivers to bursting. Snow drifting slowly onto the slopes of crisp white mountains, hundreds of miles away, then melting in the newly risen sun until it all rushed down again to the ocean. A single droplet of water must make the journey more times in its life than we could know or understand in ours. This was likely to be my last journey. I had come to the end of my years, and the river was taking me back down to the ever-growing town.

We (it used to be we) had built our cabin far up in the pine woods. I could breathe easy up there, and it was always quiet for her painting. Slowly the car stopped working, and then her painting stopped. That’s when I knew it was bad. I had bundled up last week to go get medicine, but the last snowstorm had blown in and kept us inside. So I read to her and that was it.

The sun came out the next day to taunt me. I couldn’t even remember what I was reading her, maybe couldn’t even remember how to read at all. I couldn’t bury her with the ground still so hard and cold, but I wrapped her up in blankets and climbed into the canoe. It was a fool-headed thing to do, and it was too late to stop it now. The water was crashing louder and louder up ahead. Then I remembered, the canoe was for the lake, not for the river. I’d never been down the river in the canoe before.

The rapids were waiting with crazy impatience. I saw them, tried to steer the boat to shore, but there was no shore left now, just looming rocks and sharp cliff faces. The mountains rose up on both sides, climbing into the bright cold sky. I could see the sunlight hitting the snow, feeding the frenzy that whipped me forward into the foaming white water. The canoe split, water hit my face, I was upside down, water was pressing me and spinning me. What had I been reading?