the rains came that year lashing the earth, scouring her clean like a mom with a washcloth wearing out her children's ears, washing away all that was not secure...
fat and swollen
a silent army
carving new borders
into its gullet
out the window of my dad's rust red truck, my attention is lost in the smooth surface slipping by, brown with mud. little whirlpools spin on its surface, dancing lazily around trees, collecting frothy bubbles. the back of a lawn chair pokes its head up from the current, reaching from its prison, only to be pulled back under.
somber and tall
a captured audience
the river to
turn on them
color draining from my face, i see her pinched tight against the solid trunk, clinging for life as her oppressor's grip tightens, threatening to take her again. she quivers, losing grip...dad, stop the truck. before it's too late...
arriving back at the house, we towel her off, feeling the coolness of her skin through the terry cloth. scrapes and scratches tattoo her, telling a violent tale, and i know we will be friends.
i am five when i learn that good things can come from storms, just like my first big wheel, found the day the rains stopped. when the rain comes, as it always does, so do her memories.