I do remember darkness, how it snaked
through the alders, their ashen flanks
in our high-beams the color of stone.
That hollow slap as floodwater hit
the sides of the car. Was the radio on?
Had I been asleep?
Sometimes you have to tell a story
your entire life to get it right.
Twenty-two and terrified, I had married you
but barely knew you. And for forty years
I've told this story wrong. In my memory
you drove right through it, the river
already rising on the road behind us,
no turning around.
But since your illness I recall it
differently. Now that I know it's possible
to lose you, I'm finally remembering
it right. That night,
you threw that car in reverse,
and gunned it. You found us
another way home.
Everywhere A River by Emily Ransdell | Sandalwood & Vanilla Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
Emily Ransdell lives the Pacific Northwest, where she writes, teaches, and champions the power of poetry for human connection. She divides her time between Camas, Washington and Manzanita Oregon. Her debut collection, One Finch Singing, received the Lewis Award from Concrete Wolf Press and was published in 2023.
