reflections on fall

the river runs still

It seems only right that the water I look out on these days is still. Or at least as still as a river could appear to be. Of course, it is moving. But not in the same push and pull waves of the ocean. This movement is such a slow journey that it appears motionless. The glassy surface reflects the montage of life above like a big mirror of sorts. I sit at the edge and stare into it. I think about the word reflection also meaning thoughts. I suppose that’s all my thoughts are these days. Staring back at me as I stare into them. Passing me by as slowly as this ancient body of water.

I cross the giant bridge portal from the city where I live onto the side of the river I grew up on. I can see my shadow riding a bike, and I find satisfaction in my flannel flying behind me, looking a bit like wings. I ride past the houses that didn’t used to be there and have cruel thoughts about setting them on fire. But there is one house on the edge that I remember. Perhaps it remembers me as a young girl whizzing past as I tried to keep up with my brothers. I admire the blue paint and the elderly couple who sit on the porch. They wave at me. I wave back. They are fall saying hello.

Fall has been slow to arrive this year. However, for those of us paying attention, she has begun to unpack her bags in her leisurely manner. I have found that this is often her way. Fall’s arrival has felt sort of like being at a party with a lot of people you don’t know very well, and unbeknownst to you, a good friend arrives through the back door. You feel their hand on your shoulder, and above all the noise, you hear a familiar voice say hi.

My world is saying hi back in lots of little ways. Bats from our neighbor’s (haunted?) attic chattering in the evening. Waking up in a tent to a blanket of fog. Grandjules and I accidentally matching in clothes the colors of changing leaves. A hot jasmine green tea latte from blackberry. A long evening phone call. A bitter sadness.

I take comfort in the earth’s tear tracks through the mountains. The ozark creeks run like blood in my veins. As I slip in and out of these waters, I’ve been making friends with the darters, minnows, breams, and catfish. My skin itches for scales of my own. But after this casual baptism, when I step back onto pebble shores, I shift from river creature into girl. The girl’s skin seems harder and harder to slip back into as I try to fit back into the version of myself that once knew how to live here.

I complain to the stars, and the river reflects them, twinkling back at me. I can tell they are keeping secrets. And so I return home, in girl skin that is starting to feel more like woman skin these days. The apartment is turning into a cocoon of sorts. Or maybe better suited, a den for hibernation. The kitchen is beginning to smell like cinnamon and cast iron smoke. Blocks away the river runs and I join the daily montage reflected below as time passes ever slowly and fall greets me in a long awaited embrace.