On the River (fiction)

I float in the river, drifting idly downstream. The current ushers me at a gentle pace, spinning me around under the warm rays of the afternoon sun. I can’t help but think of you as fish bump against my dangling legs and a discarded plastic bag from the local Seven Eleven briefly visits my tangle of long, brown hair.

You are, after all, the reason I’m here.

This was our spot. We claimed this lazy river as our own last October as we picnicked on its shore. When you brought me back after a long, dead winter, I thought for sure you were ready to turn things around and make good on the pain and sorrow you caused.

The soft swoosh-splash of oars in the water draws near. A cloud passes over the sun, shading my face. I hear the whisper but not the words. I can guess at the conversation but I don’t need to.

As the cloud continues on its way and the sun warms my skin once more, a woman screams and screams. Also from the little boat, a man’s voice says, “Oh my Lord, I think it’s a body.”

The tiny river frog jumps from my gaping mouth and dives, kicking with powerful legs. I wish I could follow him to his underwater peace.


3 responses to “On the River (fiction)

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