At the Riverbank
There is a child sitting at an abandoned riverbank. Moss consumes in this low place where the sun barely peaks in, if it dares to shine at all. At first glance, one assumes the child is alone and becomes incredibly concerned. By the second and third look one knows this child is surrounded by the living and the spirits of those who once lived. The child's barely moving shirt reveals a thick, secret holding breeze and galloping fauna concerned with getting on with life shared they were not alone. Their face is a smooth and pure mahogany unsaturated by life, almost as cool as the flowing in the wind. Rabbits scurried across an opening, where wasps make nests and lizards lay eggs, as the child chuckled real big after falling over.
Like closed eye-lids for half-sleep slumber, this place called gully presented itself as not only a dream but an unending nightmare, in between the living and dead. There are sounds of waves and somber bird songs, dead shrubbery, bones and other things of trash make their way to the gully, and it accepts them all. Around its mouth, where the waves relax, there are mountains of unfolded and soiled white linen shirts, baskets filled with molded bread, and scattered broken glass ornament the gravel, all in hope to save some lives. Shadows lurk between peaks of sun; they bother none who bother them, unless it’s time. Rusting metals scatter round as people discard in gully, a place of living things, ghosting presence and piercing guilt, as it has been for all this time. The sun could’ve been at its highest point when a young person, of rich and fading color, appeared in this place near the mouth, hungry to ride the waves, but no one, ever, was concerned with the sun in such a dark and dreary place. They left one place spot to chase another and ended up here; running, dancing, and jumping rocks.
Catfish touched low hanging clouds when the child threw three lines of rocks: ripple (jump) ripple (jump) ripple (jump). After seeing a dozen or so catfish jump high (and chuckle) the child moved, repeating Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Cheeks filled with molasses had to pause two times before letting another cadence travel up and out. When the sound of crumbling branches took away their attention they noticed a teenage-looking boy hovering on a rock opposite their play. It seemed more like a standing shadow, observing the happenings of a young child undetered by anyone beside themself. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Is this this child’s name? Homeless? Abandoned? Mistreated? Forgotten, perhaps. Though everything points opposite. Yellow Yellow Yellow didn’t have those things — the shrinking caused by mistreatment and abuse — in their eyes. How did you get here? Partially cared for with a drooling, coiled afro and faded blue oversized shirt, no pants and a smiling red bow.
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