A lyrical little piece about how not to be great. I’m dedicating this one to a friend who has spent countless hours helping to make my work better. Thank you.
Dear River, I beseech thee, why do you forsake me? I am your most loyal servant, forever sitting at your shore, happy to do your smallest bidding. And yet none of your water will you share with me. Why do you not find me worthy?
I have hiked your shores, finding class after class to hone my skills. I defy anyone to conjugate a verb more skillfully than I, or to match pronouns to antecedents, or to combine clauses into lengthy but still meaningful sentences with no punctuation out of place, sentences that would make proud even the southern crafter of literary complexity with whom you shared your nuanced water so generously. And yet, my reward for improving my skills and so carefully following your solemn rules? Not even a drop.
I have seen a modern musical master descend his watchtower, find the tambourine man upon your shore and, without even the slightest nod to you, dip his cup into your lyrical water and deeply drink. And then I’ve watched him do it again and again. And you just let him. But to me, your humble servant, who would never consider being so brash? Not even a spoonful.
I have watched a couple approach your shore, she with flushed cheeks and an ample bosom straining the fabric of her thin blouse, he with wavy long hair and a strong bare chest. I have watched them fondle each other, hearts quickening, bodies stiffening, tensing and then relaxing. Get a room, I would have said to them, except that I am loath to ever use such a quotidian cliché. This couple did not have even the decency to dip a cup into your waters like everyone else. Instead, they stripped off their remaining clothes and dove into your sensuous waters completely naked. Scandalous! But, am I permitted to dip even a toe into you, to make even the slightest ripple? No, not even a toe.
I have observed men come to you, eyes blackened, noses bloodied, nothing but gaps where teeth used to be. These men – I saw the boxer for whom the bell tolled amongst them – have strutted up to you as though to the swankiest bar and you have let them savor your water as they would the finest Scotch whiskey. But to me, your well-behaved servant, with nary a black eye nor bloody nose, not even a jigger.
I have witnessed your faithful servant, the great reverend doctor raised and fallen in the pursuit of freedom for all, come to you, fill a bucket of your sacred water to overflowing, take it up to the mountaintop and shower it on the heads of your people like a torrent from heaven. I have seen all this and, yet, am I not worthy to be so rained upon even a little? Not even a sprinkle?
I even saw one time, far upstream from me, the greatest connoisseur of your water ever to be, the bard from whose quill flowed tales of love and despair as yet unmatched. I traveled in his direction for many days and nights to ask him what secrets he doth possess to seduce you, my lovely river, into letting him drink so heartily from your wonderous waters. I drew near, I am certain, because I heard him whispering in the wind, I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop. But, alas, I never found him. And fear not, for I did not stray even a meter from you on my journey. Not even a meter.
I am at a loss. I have spent many long years trying to suckle at thy shore and yet you have remained dry to me. Please tell me why, Dear River. I beseech thee.
Story copyright © 2022 by David W. Palmer
Leave a Reply