How Kind the River

Ever since my youth I’ve known of a stream. I reached into its depths, and it delivered pretty things. “I would so like to ballet,” said I to Mother one fine day. Mother’s fingers swirled the surface, and I barely heard her say, “All that is gold does not glitter/The nut in the bough of the tree/But if this is what you wish for/Surely the river will give to thee.” ‘Twas not a fortnight later, when I was home from school, that I found a pair of slippers and a kit of ballet tools. I rushed to thank the river, passing Mother dear. The surface merely twinkled, and my path henceforth was clear.

Whenever I needed a favor, down to the banks I’d run. I’d bring along my mother, and she’d enchant beneath the sun. “All that is gold does not glitter/The bird in its twiggy nest/But if this is what you wish for/Surely the river with bless.” And I would wait but a fortnight, and all good things would come to me: a kite, a cake, a paper doll, a flowering apple tree. And I would run to thank the river, passing mother dear. The surface would do its twinkle, and I would dance in its depths, clear.

This lasted ‘til my twelfth year, so many things had I. But Mother was getting sickly, and soon was sure to die. So I ran down to the river, and entreated beneath the sun: “All that is gold does not glitter/The heart within my breast/But if this is what I wish for/The river will do the rest.” Confident was I that Mother would regather all her strength. Confident and foolish, and naïve in my mistake. It wasn’t ‘til I buried her that I realized the fact: my mother was the river— the gifts, her selfless act.

The riverbed had dried up, and I moved away from home. Years and years passed hither, and soon I’d a girl of my own. I’d take her down to the riverbed, still as dry as sand, until I started singing a song from my past: “All that is gold does not glitter/The bird in its twiggy nest/But if love is what you wish for/Surely your mother will bless.” I don’t believe in magic, I don’t believe in fate. But my daughter has my mother’s eyes, and I’ll often here her say: “Mama loves you, dearest. River run dry and low.” And I’ll feel a peace deep within me, a river within my soul.

Advertisements

Author: bethovermyer

Beth Overmyer wears several hats, all belonging to different writers. From fantastical kidlit to everyday popular fiction, Beth pens her work with gusto. In 2008, her screenplay The Method won best comedy at Gotham Screen’s contest, and in 2012, her MG book In a Pickle came out from MuseItUp Publishing.

2 thoughts on “How Kind the River”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s