The Day I Stopped Waiting By The River Bend

When I turned away from the river bend without looking back I felt the place where your shadow used to stand empty itself for good.

The morning was cool and clear and smelled faintly of wet reeds. Sunlight lay flat on the water and moved slowly as the current shifted beneath it. I had come early as I always did before the town fully woke. The path was worn into the earth by years of feet and memory. I stopped where the willows leaned inward and the river narrowed just enough to make its voice deepen. Usually I waited there until my thoughts settled. That day I did not. I stood for a moment and then stepped away as if the ground itself had asked me to go.

Behind me the water continued its patient work. Ahead the fields opened pale and quiet. I felt lighter and unsteady at once. Waiting had given my mornings shape. Without it the day stretched unfamiliar and wide. I folded my shawl tighter and began the walk back toward town listening to my steps adjust to their new purpose.

You first found the river bend in midsummer when the heat pressed low and heavy against the land. You said the sound reminded you of home though your home lay far inland. I did not ask how that could be true. I only nodded and watched you crouch to touch the water. You rolled your sleeves with practiced ease and let the current run over your wrists. When you looked up you smiled as if surprised I was still there. I had been surprised too.

You had come to oversee the repair of the old bridge that spanned the river upstream. The work was meant to be temporary. You spoke of it as a pause between assignments. The town received you politely and forgot you easily except where you chose not to be forgotten. You walked the paths as if learning them for a longer stay. You asked questions that lingered. When I showed you the bend you returned alone and then with me. Soon it became ours without being named.

We met there in the early mornings before the sun grew insistent. The river held the night coolness and released it slowly. Sometimes we spoke of ordinary things. Sometimes we stood in silence and listened. You carried a small notebook and sketched the curve of the bank and the way the trees bent toward the water. I watched your hand move and felt an ache that did not yet frighten me. When our shoulders brushed it felt like a consequence rather than a choice.

As summer turned the air grew sharp at the edges. You spoke more often of the bridge and the schedule that pressed upon it. I spoke more often of the harvest and the way the fields would soon change color. We both spoke of the future as if it belonged to someone else. When rain came we met anyway and let it soak us until our clothes clung heavy and cold. You laughed then and shook the water from your hair. I looked away to give myself time to breathe.

The day you told me you would be leaving arrived quietly. We stood at the bend and watched leaves drift past. You said the repairs were ahead of schedule. You said the next assignment would take you south. You said it as if the words themselves would not linger. I listened to the river deepen and felt something narrow inside me. I asked when. You said soon and then added not immediately. The distinction mattered more than it should have.

We continued to meet though each meeting felt edged. You watched me as if memorizing details you had once taken for granted. I watched the way you paused before touching anything as if afraid of leaving marks. One morning your hand brushed mine and you did not pull away. The contact lasted only a second but it burned long after. Neither of us spoke of it. The river carried our restraint downstream.

On your final morning the sky was pale and undecided. Mist rose from the water and softened everything it touched. We stood closer than before. You spoke of writing. I nodded and said I would answer. The words felt rehearsed. When you turned to leave you hesitated and looked back once. I did not step forward. The sound of your footsteps faded into the path. The river resumed its ordinary voice.

After you were gone I continued to go to the bend. Habit carried me there before thought could intervene. I stood where we had stood and listened. The water sounded the same. The trees leaned the same way. Only the waiting had changed. It grew heavier each day. I told myself you would return. I told myself the bend would remember us even if you did not. Letters came at first and then less often. I answered and learned the tone of distance.

Autumn deepened and the mornings grew cold enough to sting. Frost silvered the reeds. I wrapped my shawl tighter and waited longer. Each day the river seemed to ask me something I could not answer. One morning no letter arrived. Another followed. I stood at the bend and felt the weight of my waiting settle into certainty. The river did not ask again. It flowed on indifferent and faithful.

That was the day I turned away.

Now I walk different paths in the morning. I pass the bend without slowing. Sometimes I hear the river through the trees and feel a brief pull. I acknowledge it and continue on. The fields change with the seasons. The bridge stands firm and carries travelers who do not know what once gathered there at dawn. I have learned that some places hold us only as long as we are willing to stand still inside them. When we move on they remain and that is their mercy.