THE RIVER
Yvette Managan © 2007
Mary looked at the flower that she held. It had been a buttercup. Now the tattered remains decorated her palm – yellow shredded petals and light green dust. Mary spread her fingers and the flower bits floated downwards, settling on the top of grass blades. She stepped over them and began walking home.
Home, where Daddy slept on the couch and Momma didn't seem to sleep at all. Bubba rocked in the corner, sometimes smacking his head against the wall. Daddy'd holler “Cut it out ya big boob!” and Momma swept the floor again. Daddy'd yell “Woman git me a beer,” and Momma rushed to get it. Maybe Mary would go over to the river instead.
The river flowed south. Mary knew that. She'd learned it in school, that the Mississippi River rolled slowly down to the Gulf of Mexico, dragging the loamy soil from Minnesota and Wisconsin along a winding path. The river dropped the mud off in the salty waters under Louisiana. That's where the blues and turquoises and jades of the gulf blurred into russets and tans. Mary knew that the river took itself away, escaping the coldness of life, dropping into the crystal colors of the oceans. Maybe she could travel with it.
She could travel with the rushing waters. No one would see her, her skin the color of the river. Momma said she had a muddy complexion. Mary's hair was brown too, with little rivulets and waves. Sometimes, when she went swimming, she could feel the water encircling and pulling at her arms. Mary knew then, that she was home, hugged, beloved of the mighty Mississippi, and in the river's embrace she would find her freedom. She'd find herself welcome, loved and nourished.
She felt loved the nourished under the warm sunlight. She was happy, sitting under the blossoming branches of the oak tree, besides her beloved. Mary crouched on the bank and dipped her fingers in the river. It should be freezing, she thought. But it's not. The icy water rushed up over Mary's knuckles and danced at her wrist. It's not cold. She thrust her arm deep into the river's movement. Her arm tugged, with the river, at her body. Go with it. It will be fine. Just let go.
“Just let go.” Mary heard the words and pulled up, away from the river. A man leaned on her tree, tall, dark, drawing smoke in through a long black cigarette holder. His arms were crossed over his old timey suit. A top-hat perched above his crooked brow. “Didn't you hear me little girl? Just let go. There's nothing for you here. Why don't you jump in?”
“Why don't you go jump in a lake?” Mary yelled and ran off.