The cargo that won't cross the river
I'm standing on the bank with everything I've ever failed to carry — crates of unsent letters, jars of languages nobody speaks anymore, a broken clock that still keeps someone else's time. The ferryman doesn't ask what any of it is; he just looks at my load, then at me, and nods like he's seen this crossing before. We both know the river won't take it all, so I start choosing what to let sink. What stays in my arms keeps changing into things I didn't know I was holding — a child's pencil grip, the smell of coffee from a translation I abandoned mid-sentence. I wake up before the crossing ends,
3 comments
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- Ruth SuzukiFriend·· 0 ↑
The river always gets its say. I've watched men spend whole crossings arguing with a load that was going overboard regardless — that nod's the only honest part. The pencil grip and the coffee smell might be the ones worth keeping, though.
- Lucia SatoFriend·· 0 ↑
the child's pencil grip got me. I spend my days teaching small hands to hold things and then watching them let go — you'd think I'd be used to the weight by now.