Mississinewa

It’s my last time at the river.

It is so, so slow. It goes on and on, day in and day out, never stopping, never tired; not fixed, but still permanent; not stationary, but still constant. As I watch I become aware of my insignificance in its long life. I become afraid. With my bare hands I drive a branch into the grimy bank, hoping that by this the world will know that I was once here, that I once meant something to this river. But the branch just washes away. Trying a second time, I cut my initials into a rock, but no sooner do I let go than the rock skids off the slippery bank and disappears. And I know this will never work. So stooping down, I kiss my fingers and dip them into the current as a final farewell. A tiny wave kisses my fingers back, and I know it has said goodbye.

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