That Great Big River By Haohan SiMa

As a little boy, he waddled into the current of that great big river. He touched the pebbles that water had washed smooth, felt the breeze which jostled his hair, ventured further into the current where little minnows swam back and forth playfully. He giggled as he chased them around, the rolled-up cuffs of his trousers soaked in the little waves. The craggy rocks didn’t provide enough traction for his toddler feet, which slipped on the mossy surfaces.

Splash! In he went, down the river, twisting and turning, arms and legs flailing, unsure of where to go or what to do. He wasn’t ready; nobody ever is for their first dive in that great big river. At first, he struggled against the current, unwilling to continue down a river so cold and alone. He saw, through the water that rushed over his head, a ledge to his right; gathering as much energy as he could muster, he threw himself at the root that protruded over the river’s edge. His fingers slipped, and he was carried away by the current that insisted it stay with him. The great big river was not ready for the boy to leave yet.

Slowly, the river gave way to a slow stream, one that waed past the forest — alive with the summer songs of birds, the deer who gazed upon him curiously, and the moose who dipped its head in the stream for a drink. He embraced the moment, not wanting it to end, like clear skies aer a storm, holding onto the peace of the stream. The serenity of the stream waed around him, cradled him gently like a baby in a crib. Although the water was still cold, he made no effort to climb back to shore. Instead, he floated on his back, feeling the sun on his face, the soothing water that carried him down the stream.

The stream ended at the rapids, a sinister stretch of the river. He was tossed into the unforgiving current, turbulent and cruel, smashing him against the rocks which protruded from the river. He screamed, water gushing into his mouth, threatening to drown out his voice. He coughed, sputtered, struggling to find a grip. He forced himself to take deep breaths when his head poked above the current, calming himself from the battle within. He was not ready to give up, not ready to leave the river which he wanted to conquer, to experience, to feel. He held onto the current which held onto him, one and all gripping tightly onto each other, unwilling to let go. He felt the mossy rocks which slipped by him, tasted the water, crystalline and pure, smelled the pine needles whose scent waed with the breeze, saw the bright blue sky above the current, heard the gushing of the stream as it quieted down.

No, he wasn’t ready to leave the river just yet.

He embraced the sun, the clouds, even the rain which drizzled past the canopy of red, yellow, orange, and brown leaves and onto his face, waed in that great big river until aer the rain had passed, until the clouds parted, until he felt ready.

Slowly but surely, he picks himself up aer floating for so long, carried by the current, cared for by the nurturing river which at times was turbulent and rough, at others a gentle, peaceful presence. He climbs to the stream’s edge, hoists himself onto land, and feels the breeze on his hair, his face. He sees the once craggy, mossy rocks, now washed smooth with time; the ones that he had slipped on when he was just a little kid. He looks at the water’s reflection for a while, sitting there with his toes in the water, the face of an old man staring back at him: long, white hair, ragged beard, scarred hands, but hands which tell a story of the turbulent times he has been through.

He smiles, removing his feet from the water, looking upon the waves of water which have carried him so far. Far from his childhood, when he was just a little boy, walking on the mossy rocks, arms in an upwards angle like a bird about to take flight, waddling in the current of that great big river.