The Bend in the River

Long ago, I removed from my hope chest the dream of a house at the bend in the river where the cottonwoods grow. It was a concept borne of cowboy swagger, and it wasn’t for me.

There was a time, though, when I believed that it was. Until the line marking the whiskey bottle was drown by the water used to refill it, determining a different path completely. A path that took me from walking our kids to school and organizing play dates to answering to moms on the playground about where I spent my days, to family questioning my judgment in placing my children in the care of strangers, and to neighbors who tracked my hours and travel schedule, asking me if it was worth it. As the lone witness to Swenny’s increasing struggle with alcoholism, I knew that it was.

Those who enjoyed shelter beneath roofs provided for by someone else thought my only expense was the price of a mortgage and groceries. But those were simply wages well-allocated and never missed. The absence I felt was of what I never had: someone with whom to share hardship. Someone to take the reins on days when I couldn’t, or take the lead when I couldn’t find my way. Someone to place a window at just my height so I could see more clearly what was out there.

Someone to take me to the bend in the river where the cottonwoods grow. Because while I had once convinced myself that such a thing was not for me, I admit now that it could have been.