photo credit: DigitalArt2
There is a river that runs right through the center of my town. When I was a little girl, we lived right down the street from it, and sometimes when it rained the water would run up over the road, rushing and rushing, covering the bridge. My parents would take us down to see the river, always keeping us back a safe distance (though I'm sure my brother tried to get closer). The river was normally pretty small, but when it flooded it was something to be afraid of as well as something to be admired. It was wild and untamed and, to me, beautiful.
As an adult I came back to this little town and my little river and cried. What had happened to my river? It was choked with trash, and nearly dry from drought and damming. In my childhood, had I imagined the grandeur of the river? In my smallness, had I seen the river as larger than it was? Maybe. But something tells me I didn't. I remember the river washing away a car once. Now it is a tiny trickle, the land around it parched and cracked.
And so I cry for my river, and I cry for my daughter, who will never get to see it the way I once did, majestic and powerful and free.