The River That Holds My Childhood and My Parents

Photos

The story

The stream spills over the stone weir, hits into a bright white fall, and shatters into layer upon layer of spray. The weir is not high; stone presses on stone, and the water winds through the cracks, making a fine, broken sound. Trees and grass grow thick on both banks, and on the earthen slope in the distance the roofs of farmhouses appear.

This is the small river of my old home. I was born here and grew up here. This river lies at the very front of my memory; it is my impression of home.

The water surface is struck bright by light, breaking apart in patches. I stand on the weir and look down; the water is so clear I can see the stones beneath, and the sound of water never stops. The river is not big, and the banks are not wide, yet it has enclosed my entire childhood within it.

My parents still live here. The yard, the trees by the gate, the roads they walk every day—all remain by this river. When I am away, I miss home, and in the end my thoughts always turn to this river, and to them, still living here.

So this is both what I long for and what binds me. Water spreads layer by layer over the stones, flowing away and flowing back; the stones have been worn round, and still they stay where they are.