The river rises and the rains keep coming. My Papa says it can't flood for the water can run away as fast as it comes down. I believe him because he's Papa and because I'm afraid ofwater I know I can't stop. All day in school I see the windows darken, and hearing the steady drum of rain, I wonder if it wil1 ever stop and how can I get home.
It did not flood. I cannot now remember how I got home. I recall only that the house was dark and cold, and I went from room to room calling out the names of all those I lived with and no one answered. For a time I thought the waters had swept them out to sea and this was all I had. At last I heard the door opening downstairs and my brother stamping his wet boots on the mat.
Now when the autumn comes I go alone into the high mountains or sometimes with my wife, and we walk in silence down the trails of pine needles and hear the winds humming through the branches the long dirge of the world. Below us is the world we cannot see, have come not to see, soured with years of never giving enough, darkened with oils and fire, the world we could have come to call home.
One day the rain will find us far from anything, crossing the great meadows the sun had hidden in. Hand in hand, we will go forward toward nothing while our clothes darken and our faces stream with the sweet waters of heaven. Your eyes, suddenly deep and dark in that light, will overflow with joy or sadness, with all you have no names for. This is who you are. That other life below was what you dreamed and I am the man beside you.