imprint of a kiwi

i was walking with you last night by a river.  you were walking with yourself, your little girl self.  she picked up a bike and you got on the back as she pedaled out into the current.

i hesitated on the shore.

i didn't have a bike, and i was afraid my dress would weigh me down.  ultimately i didn't want to lose you to the other side so i jumped in after you.  i kept my head above the surface the whole time.

we pulled ourselves up out of the water.  we dried ourselves stepping through the sun.  we curled up in a cabin where you and little you were overflowing with laughter.  it reminded me of the first time i saw her peeking out.  you were telling a story about sun salutes and the way you interacted with the Afghan observer.  your mischievousness pulled me in.

i was in your happy place and it became my happy place.  light and airy and spacious.

and then i checked my phone.

the voicemail began pulling me back to the other shore.  as i stood to leave i noticed my dress had dried quickly from the heat.  something wasn't right.  the front was stained from the dirty reeds in the river and i felt a sadness for ruining it.

the reeds made a pattern that became a sort of intention.  a perfect outline of bulbs and branch.  a block print all along the front of me. i joked that i should swim the backstroke to complete the pattern.  i soaked up your smile.

and then i woke.  aching for the river, the dress: the message from the pattern

what then?

if not this, then what?

do you think it's worth it.  just look me in the eyes and tell me you think it's worth it: to kick someone out on the street so they can get kidnapped.

i try not to sigh.  her need is so great and the question is impossible to answer because it is. . .a pretzel question.  the kind that loop you around and around until you can't remember where you started.

i want, suddenly, to hold her hand.  to just sit there with that small touch.  is her hand impossibly warm?  is it clammy and cold?  or tepid?  limp?  fierce?  bony?

still the words and the tears spill on.  still the people move around us.  still my throat closes around all the other questions spinning in my head:

if not this, what then?