Below the levee with the town out of view, I am down at the river. Such a massive and endless thing making so little noise. It glides by me as a trick, an impossibility. This morning the clouds hung so very low over the valley, submerging the tops of the mountains and appearing as the river’s nemesis or twin.
Yesterday, in my temporary cabin, away from my temporary residency, away from my home, I watched and listened to more TV than I’ve done all year and the subject of death was everywhere for me.
House, True Blood, Lost, something about Haitian Voodoo and Angel (on DVD) were my line-up. This morning Patrick Lane told me about the Red Squirrel in his yard. Three years of arguing between the two and Lane now holds this squirrel, victim of a car’s wheel, in his hand as it fades out.
My own fear of death has something to do with the loss of control, the same way turbulence terrifies me because I have no say in the equation. Surrendering control is not easy for me but the river has such certainty, is so sure of itself that it doesn’t need to say a word. The swallows dive in briefly, flying upstream, gulping in water, bugs, I know not what. They are fearless flyers.
I don’t believe the river but it assures me that one day I’ll come to terms with what it has to offer.
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