The River

On a spring night a boy sat alone at the wheel of his car. Behind him was the long stretch of blacktop where friends in two cars had faced each other, smashing pedal to metal to see who would be chicken and swerve. Neither wavered, nor did death, which drove straight and true, glorying in its bounty. Now there were neither lights nor sirens nor screams, only the lapping of floodwater over the floor of the bridge in front of him, a time for contemplation, like meeting God, a perfect moment, but chilling too. The boy sat there a long time, wondering how many droughts and floods this muddy, ordinarily sedate river had seen as it twisted and turned toward greater waters far to the south, enriching soil around it, then destroying crops thriving on that land. He wondered how many lives it had built and how many it had swept away. It was late, so the boy flicked on his lights, turned around, and headed home, leaving the river’s mysteries to itself. The boy aged and grew, and like the river he began to meander, turning this way and that, unsure of his path, which seemed to change with the seasons, almost exultant when overflowing, no matter what havoc he wrought, other times suffering through the dry creek beds of drought. He inflicted pain and felt pain, but he was simply flowing, with the pull of stronger rivers determining his course. Finally, like a weary tourist the river approaches the Gulf of Mexico, where like it’s kin it will cease to exist, becoming a small speck in a vast watery universe composed of many sources. And the boy as journey’s end nears? Once again he’s the boy in the dark by the bridge. It’s like meeting God, perfect but bone chilling.