SOLACE

BY DANNY WILSON

I stand on the bank of the unknown river that flows by. I see low brush around me in various shades of green, some brighter than others. My eyes move from the water that glistens in small ripples reflecting the sun, past the green, and up the hills of a small canyon that holds this water for this moment only. The earth turns brown and appears lifeless. I wonder if I walked up the hill and poured out water out of this blanket-covered canteen that a single spot might turn green, making the adjacent, dormant grasses jealous. The realization — the grasses are not dead but dormant, waiting, lying patiently for the hope in a single glass of water — brings a glint of hope that I feel in my chest. Yet, I know this small drink won’t make any difference, none that we can see anyway.

I step in the river up to my calves. Using a clear, plastic cup, I reach down and let the river fill it. I hold it up to look at its clarity, blue sky all around it, blue sky through it. I take that water and pour it back into the river and think for a moment that I can follow that specific thirteen ounces of water down the river until it reaches the next bend. I follow a spot downstream at the rate I think it’s moving. This water, like the water on the hill, makes no difference in the volume or speed of the river, none that we can see anyway.

Turning back to this part of the river for a moment, I try to see the water in front of me in a freeze frame. It’s so clear I see through to the riverbed, the water almost disappearing. I see only what I imagine. I close my eyes and say three words out loud to the river, to the green vegetation on the bank, to the brown hills around, hoping they may make a difference, even if no one can see it. | DJW