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.”