December 3, 2025
i dream about the bridge again.
i am barefoot in the snow on the beach by the unforgiving thompson river that swallows trees and cows and bodies of people that i used to know.
the river is deep to the banks, this yawning dark abyss as the snow falls around me and obscures me vision.
i am frantic and confused, as i often am during my dreaming.
driven only by the impulse to run, to get away, i approach the old train bridge as it stands, this imposing figure in twilight, a place i have brought lovers to show them the river so that maybe then they could see that this river runs too inside my veins and under my skin, weaving its wild way through me, cold as ice.
i was born a five minute walk from this river and feel it as a part of me, this unyielding force.
i remember after he died, this woman asked if we should go lay flowers at the river, like some kind of offering, and it was so absurd that i just laughed in her face.
this river cares little about flowers or bones or bodies or car wrecks. it is wild. it is not molly coddled or pacified by cheap grocery store bouquets. the black churn of the water is warning enough: proceed with caution.
and no one ever does.
i dream of standing on the bridge in a white nightgown. i dream of rusting metal and river water.
i wake and feel like i swam my way out of my bridge dreams and i can’t tell if its sweat or the inky black water of this river.
when they take my blood at the hospital, do my red blood cells achieve suspension inside the darkness of this water?
do you hear it calling like i do?
hospital vespers 