As I Continue

I am running. And as I do I look downhill and to my right. Summer has ended, but still, full lush green hills barrel down into a wide picturesque valley. Bushy green trees have created borders for different colored plots of land. Next to me is a narrow shimmering canal that as I look forward I can see it snakes down and through the valley. Small long houseboats are parked in this canal. Some are moving. They come in all sorts of colors and have different names and pictures painted along their sides. Some are skipperless and are just parked. Others are manned by older couples. Women on the bow, cleaning and scrubbing. Men at the stern with their dogs standing handsome and regal behind them while their owners make casual conversation with their neighbors. As I continue, I see two of these boats are floating forward side by side. Each are skippered by two older men and even if they are not brothers, they are. One speaks as the other laughs as their boats slowly putt side by side into a lock that is no more than ten feet wide. One of the boats is named Wilshire and is painted red. I cannot read the name of the other, but I see a small faded wooden crate on top where a few potted plants live. Small red-orange tomatoes weigh down tender green branches. And as these boats make their way into the lock, two women, who I imagine are each of the captain's respected significant other, operates each an arm of the gates for the lock. They are leaning back aggressively with all their weight in their backs and shoulders. They are stout women, which is mandatory for the jobs they are doing. Or maybe just to be the women they are. And as they pull with all their might, slowly the gates begin to swing open and the rush of now free water can be heard breaking out. And breaking out rapidly. I then can see these two boats contain what remains of a family. Older, retired, and enjoying what is left of that which remains. The water still pours and sounds beautiful.The boats have stopped moving forward and they are magically starting to sink. I then see the children of these families, my age, and countries away, whispering about the past and future alike over pasta and full carafes of dry red wine. Fingers of steam dance off their plates. Their is someone special sitting across from them. And if the right choices are made, a future may grow. The boats are now below my sight line and soon they will start again. And there in front will be another lock. The men will tell more jokes. The wives will continue to work like they have learned. And somewhere the children of these families will find a way to climb into their own futures and into their own versions of adulthood. But until then, I will just keep running.



-Remoy