My Grandfather's boats

It was a short walk to the boats. Down the hill, around the bend and the river would rise to meet the eye. The rest of the way was ours to traverse. Sometimes we did, often we did not. But contact was made every time, every time we walked to the river, there was conversation.

Often we sat together on the sloping hillside, watching the river carry away the boats. Holding hands sometimes to steady myself on the incline I would let go of his secure grasp only after we had sat down. Then he would do what he did best, put his hand across my shoulder and talk to me. It was a feeling I have since wanted to recreate. I never wondered where they went.

We all go down the river of life, on our own adventures. We carry our memories with us, as fuel and for sustenance.