She said we never reach the river we dream of. Never.
Yet, she’s there, roasting marshmallows, gutting fish, keeping dry inside a tent.
Perhaps, she’s forgotten how a wild river feels along the soles of her feet.
It’s cold water, during the hottest days, makes you shiver, while the sun heats your body, still wet with its current on your skin.
Tickles those tender city feet.
She told me a story once.
As a young girl, she and a friend, riding bikes, exploring lanes and ways, had found a spring, circled by flowers and moss.
Magic, she called it. I saw the fire in her eyes, when that spring brought words to her mouth.
Words found her there.
They’re still with her. Not necessarily words she could tell someone. They’re inside of her. They didn’t just come to her. She had to go and find them.
Once she made a deal with abandon, ran the risk of abandonment.
A fool brave, not stupid
With more to learn.
Her feet, constantly wet.