Murmur Lee Harp

The light cracks open and I am free. I tumble and spin. The sky swirls. I hear myself sing, “Tra la la la la!” and suddenly I am back where all of this began: the Iris Haven River. The water splashes and I see myself in each droplet, reflected a thousand times, each reflection a different world. Oh, I was wrong about there being no wonder!

My exile to that strange void has changed me. I am strong. Righteous. You knew I would be. In the wind’s fury, I saw the past. I witnessed Oster Harp stroll the beach as his wife lay dying, and my violent conception, which catapulted my mother into a paralysis kept whole by prayer, and my daughter’s ecstatic tumble into the arms of a father whose inability to love selflessly made him cruel. I saw myself exact the truth from Billy Speare and then stubbornly—almost pathologically—ignore it. Yes, I saw my life, my wonderful, wonderful life. How could I regret those days? They were precious. Rare. Finite. You’ve got to love it all, even the sorrow and violence and pain, because—believe me—being alive is a temporary privilege granted by a fickle universe.

The current draws me away from land—perhaps far from the people who have gone before me—deep into the heart of the river. As I’m pulled through the water, ribbonlike, I wonder if the fish can see me or if I remain a nimble spirit.