Rivers

You were seven, then, and you ran around the neighborhood playground, shouting with glee each time the "monster" got nearly close enough to catch your red fleece jacket then missed as you swung out of reach. But one time you must have slipped or tried to leap a gap too big, for you fell. You summoned us then and we flowed freely, happily, to an innocent calling.

Remember your first essay in 2nd grade? The one on the Gold Rush that your mother made you rewrite again and again? We came again that evening, yet this time you fought us. It was late, more than an hour past your bedtime and we fed off your fatigue, drank in your frustration. Your anger fueled us. We desired power and you, guard down and energy spent, were more than willing to be weak, helpless, passive.

It was then that we grew addicted to the allure of the evening. A seed was planted and we knew that our time would be the time of darkness when we could come, slow or fast, and you would not stop us. Perhaps you would be too tired after holding us at bay all day. Or perhaps you didn't care, when there was no one watching. We made rivers, carving your face and neck and body. It was a masterpiece to us. Even better in its ephemerality, how you would sink, melt under our touch on the bathroom tiles yet awake afresh every day for us to chart a new course down your tender body.