river.

imogen vernon
Nov 5 · 2 min read

41.4226° N, 122.3861° W | 44.9778° N, 93.2650° W

so gentle. incessant. that river.

i’m capturing the sound. weaving it with your words and memory. my memory, this moment. i’ll hold it. planning to relive it in whatever flash comes before death. i’ll practice this memory — imagining i can replay this part in slow motion. grab it with slick fingers.

swaddled in blue now. so sweet. so young and old. biblical. up to your knees.

you. so young. alive. was it 2000? in love. tented in love.

i visit your smiles, older now. caught in a picture. both of you fucking gorgeous. forever thankful for journey, crossed paths. the bar. the 1973.5 miles. were you warm in the tent? alive? how could you not be.

did you dream of this? 2019. could you have? the babies and labor, and pain and love and embarrassment that i can’t quite fathom. the chapters and homes and seasons. sobriety. traditions — what will be kept and what lost? what new will we dream? did we overlap? catch each other’s worn eye?

I lay awake. consumed with your breath. in. out. so comforting. thankful for sleeplessness. this moment i will never find again. cozy. darker than home. your hip — the spot I rest my hand. fills me with primal lust, but now just comfort. the home i didn’t know.

this moment. love. sadness. transition. ecstasy. unknown. fear. hope. knowing myself all at once. knowing myself.

through your breath. it seems endless. beautiful. never ending. comfort in your life — the past, your future i dream of and embed myself in.

i imagine that river. there when you camped. when you were born. when generations before us were born. flowing the day we crossed paths at the playground. flowing the day we first made love — you so sick. flowing the day we gave birth. flowing the day i met your eyes. flowing the day we love, we lose, we leave. flowing greater than all we can live and imagine.

your breath seems endless. in peace and in dark i realize it isn’t. it will end. sooner than we realize. the river will end, far longer than we realize. it will flow so peacefully the day we lose. flow the day our babies crumble, give birth, die. flow the day our grandchildren struggle and wonder. will they know our story?

anniversary of your birth i think most of your mother. wish i could hear that story from her. the sad one. the hard one. vulnerable. lonely? or is that just my story? i’d love to hear hers — give her all the space to share the pieces she doesn’t tell.

i realize in your 48th year her breath is gone. and my heart sinks. your breath lives beside me as you sleep. that river flows on and on. teasing me that we’ll always be here. your breath — steady and in sync with that river.

i’ll sink in now. to your breath. count down from 100 over and over, heart still racing. grasping for every moment i can. knowing that you continue so steadily as you slip through my fingers.

48 years.