There runs a river.

Lone was the river that moved water over the drift past the tea room through high reeds, every drop alone. At the end where its mouth opened to swallow sea water a little boy fished, always alone on the shores of the Indian Ocean.

There he listened to the river’s currents, its gurgles, watched swells with whirlpools come and go as he fished, fished all the time, alone.
 
Together, they did what they dreamed; they searched for freedom while the fisher boy fished every day the river ran slow and fast by his side.
Like good friends who know of one another’s journeys they listened to ocean waves, pounding surf and smelled the salt in the spray.
Each heard what they thought they heard as they stood side by side, together, looking out to sea.

That was the way it was a long time ago. Time creates, stays a while, changes everything and in the next breath we see the past, what once was, differently, and think of age.

Today I am far away and the river water once watched is gone, moved like old memories to fade, we have changed. No more brown and blue moving to the horizon carrying our search for freedom, only old dreams now with new hopes sprinkled grey and me in a far away country.
 
My current, once fast and strong, carried me to the four corners of the earth is slower, has changed from impetuous to rich and heavy in experience. It heaves, navigates me well into that last of time before me.

And the river it too has moved on, gone to where I think I know, for friends like us always think of one another and through that magic of feeling at a distance I see it in places it dreamed, all spread along the African coast along long white beaches that hug the little village where I was born, Amanzmtoti.

Hello dear friend, I am well. We made it.


There Runs a River: Peter Frickel: This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

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