I remember
being 10 years old,
and laughing idly with a friend,
being tugged along the back of her father's boat on a raft,
flying high upon the mighty Hudson
our freshwater wet hair dripping down
our backs,
our skin painted red by the sun,
the rest of them looking on at us, smiling, snapping photographs.
But the boat went too fast,
we fell off our little float,
treading viciously to keep our heads above the water,
years of swimming lessons escaping us,
the waves covering our heads, pulling us downward.
Suddenly I hated the river,
the Hudson that swallowed me whole,
and I remembered its murkiness,
forcing myself to be disgusted by it,
resenting it for its willingness to take me.
When we made it back onto the boat,
warm, ensconced in towels, fed by the kisses of our mothers,
I was shaken by my failure,
the betrayal of a water I found beautiful,
the way my heart raced confusedly in attempt to save itself.
Now we are estranged friends,
though I still live in its valley,
and somehow, I could not shake the feeling
the burn in my heart, the knot in my stomach, the constant worry in my mind,
until I realized
it was not the river's fault.