Memoirs of a River

There once was a river… well, less of a river actually, more of a creek or a stream. Now that I think of it, it could have just been some sort of drain line. But back then, it was our river. Tree covered, it ran through the park near our grandparent’s house. We never knew where it started, or where it went after it left the park. We never knew any of it except for the bit that was in the park, but it was enough.

I remember that we loved it, but I don’t remember why. It was small and silly, but it was our favorite part of the place. The playground was fun, and nondescript; hardly worth the “long” two hundred yard hike, a climbing through the thorny, over-grown tree line to get to. But our river was worth it.. Cool and clean on summer days, when the slide was too hot, and the playground was no longer a magical land, or a pirate’s ship, our river was still its enchanting self…

But that was then. I went back to the park not long ago. It was almost the exact same. But our river was gone. Its tiny splendor reduced to dry, leaf filled trench; sad and forgotten. My childhood memories still hung from the nearby trees, foggy and broken. But I loved it still. I sat by it for a bit, remembering. Then I got up to leave. But my memories stayed; more solid now than before. Like hard, smooth grave marker. No name or date, just a few sad words. “there once was a river.”

Childhood

Innocents and play
Then it's gone
What we knew
What we loved
Long moment
Short days
Time that we could not count
Filled with words that we could not spell
Ignorant bliss
Yet, understanding that is more
Than any school could have taught us
Because we didn't try
Because we just were
Because we played in the rain
instead of moping in it
Because we were not afraid to see beauty
And to be beautiful
And so we were
(are)