The river smells different when the tide turns toward the sea, exchanging the sweet, muddy scent of hemlock roots for the sharp mineral bite of Atlantic brine. Standing on the crumbling granite wharf at four in the afternoon, the low water exposed the blackened spruce pilings that once supported the village coal dock. They emerged from the gray silt like the ribs of an ancient vessel, barnacle-encrusted and indifferent to the century that had stripped away their deck planking.
The Measured Return of Absence
Ten years ago, my father stood on this same wharf watching a tugboat haul an oil barge toward the bay, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his oilskin jacket. He spoke about the river as if it were a stubborn neighbor he had agreed to tolerate, someone who took more than it gave but kept an honest tally. Neither of us acknowledged that his illness was already narrowing his stride; the water did all the speaking for both of us.
Learning to Stand Still
Grief has a cadence remarkably similar to tidal brackish water, advancing quietly, receding without warning, leaving behind only small polished stones and broken shells. We often demand that memory offer closure or reconciliation, yet the river provides only its ceaseless, unhurried rhythm. It insists that what is lost remains part of the current, swept under the surface rather than vanished.
I stood until the dusk turned the brackish current the color of lead, watched the pilings vanish beneath the incoming tide, and walked back up the hill without looking behind me.