a 40-foot-tall pine sits at the base of the Kitimat river.
my grandfather tells me that trees are meant to tell stories,
that the rings inside hold more than i will ever know.
my friend and i sneak our swimsuits under our clothes
when her father takes us fishing
at that same river.
once he isn’t looking,
we run in
and push to the other side.
the water is thick like syrup.
it is rapid and rough.
i swear a chinook salmon hugs my leg halfway across;
i may be swallowed whole.
the feeling of stinging, cold life surrounds me.
when i return to Kitimat
eight years later,
the river is more shallow than i remember.
when i wade across
the water only stains up to my hip bones.
i sit on the stones that line the bank.
feel the rock cut into my thighs.
i think about autumn
when the salmon swim upstream to die.
how their soft stomachs scrape across the jagged floor,
how blood and scales intermingle in the wake.
the sun dries my clothes,
its light causes an ache to grow behind my eyes.
an ache in the back of my throat.
something about pain and fresh water,
something about stone holding flesh.
when i stick my hands into my pockets, i find that they are filled with splintered wood.
you call my name from across the river.
i no longer look at the sky.
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