The Road to Confluence --- an excerpt By R.L. Secor 2008

If you make it to the end will you please comment. Did it hold your interest, do you want to know more, is it easy to read. Could you imagine a southern accent or a sassy, backwoods, colored girl twang? Were you bored? Are you hopeful?

Some people question the purpose of life while others question the existence of God. I never questioned those things. My Daddy taught me from the day I was born about heaven, and God, and love. So, I never really worried about those things, for me, it was more like the day to day monotony that piqued my interest and got the cogs turning in my already over active mind.

The big question for me, the one I had pondered most of my pathetic little life was the river… When the Mississippi flowed into the Missouri at the confluence, where did it start? Where did it end? How did one know from that point if they were swimming in the Missouri or the Mississippi? Or, did they blend together so beautifully that they truly became one great river, wide and vast as the summer sky.

I would imagine the Missouri rumbling along like a freight train, its blue water lapping at the banks and little waves leaping to touch the sky. The Mississippi would be an entirely different kind of river altogether. Red as the Mississippi mud that cradled it in its place, it roared through the night, a mercenary, a force to be battled but never conquered. There at the confluence, the mystical place where the 2 mighty rivers converged into one, they would froth and foam at the mouth, ginger ale over lime-sherbet, until they became a rich deep purple color, passionate, convulsing, almost singing as she soared then crashed over the rocks.

If I looked up stream in a little tide pool of sorts, would I find a spot of blue? As I sat on a dock, my feet dangling into the fish filled waters would I happen to catch sight of a tiny ribbon of red snaking along?

When two become one, what happens to them, are they both gone forever with only the new creation in their place? Or, do they live on in separate little molecules, drops of red and drops of blue, each with their own strength, united in purpose. ?

Transition & background

In my dream. The road stretched out forever. The fields around me wide and open and empty, migration over, summer at its peak, heat unwielding. Dust floats gently into the air, or is it just the heat waves wiggling their way up from the dry hot dirt? I am alone. I am not afraid. My feet are bare, but I do not feel the heat or the pain of the rocks or thorns. The only other life I am witness to is a small flock of Horned Lark pecking at the ground along the edges of the road. I walk slow and deliberate, in no hurry, I know where I am going. In my bed I shudder, I know it is a dream but I keep on dreaming it anyway. That is when I hear him, “Dern it Sassy girl, wher’ve ya done gone dis time?”

My breath catches, I don’t want him to hear me, I don’t want him to bring me back, and then he is there too, trodding along the path a short distance behind me. He too is silent now, looking up at me only to reach for me. I press forward, a little quicker, a little quieter. My heart yearns for the river, the river that brings life to this dry sandy waste land, the river that in a moments notice can wipe it all off the map like a dry erase marker.

When I open my eyes I remember that I am lying in the cedar chest. I am on my back my legs bent, my feet resting on the top so that I can push it up just a bit to hear better, get fresh air, or just a bit of light. With a soft cotton blanket beneath my back and a thinner blanket folded up like a small pillow, I am really quite comfortable in the chest. This is my place and not a soul has yet to discover it. When papa starts drinkin’ or mama starts a drinkin and a crying this is where I go. It just gets old ya know, all the hollerin and the crying and bangin things around. I’ve been takin things down around the house, picture frames, an old vase, little things that no one notices. I’m tired of seeing my papas face smiling out from behind broken glass. I’m tired of sweeping up the glass into the dust pan – and the mess of our lives under the rug.

There is an erie quiet in the house. I wonder if they have fallen asleep in each others arms like I have found them so many times; Mama unconscious from the alcohol, Papa unconscious in his grief and heartache. Traditionally this is the point in the play when I tell myself to hold on just a little longer; just enough to be sure that it is safe to come out. But, I can smell dinner burning in the oven, and something, curiosity maybe, eggs me on. I can see most of the living room from the cedar chest, being part of the reason I chose it for my spot. There is glass everywhere; I groan inaudibly, just more work for me. There is still no sound nor is there any movement coming from the room. A chair is overturned; the blinds are twisted and broken. The dinner in the oven is smelling stronger and stronger of burnt.

I unfold myself with stealth and quiet determination and I tiptoe into the living room. Mama is there. Mama is there on the floor. “Oh Mama!” I cry out. Mama is clutching her stomach, an impossibly enormous lightning bolt of glass skewered right into her swollen belly. “oh dear God! Mama! I cry out again. “The baby!” Then I see the blood. It is running down one side of her large rounded belly into a puddle on the floor collecting into a pool in the carpeting. I touch her face and I realize she is not unconscious, she is dead.

In this moment of moments, if one could look ahead and see it all coming at you, you would see yourself hysterical, crying, screaming, angry. I was not. I called for the paramedics and I found a blanket to cover her. I could not cover her face. In the movies the dead are always being covered. Maybe it is a way of accepting death without having to say the word. But, I wasn’t ready to hide her face. I lay down on the floor beside her and held her hand in mine. I smelled the patchouli smell of her shampoo in her hair, dawn dish soap on her sleeves, cold cream on her skin and let’s see… Chicken Broth, from dinner. Thoughts ran through my mind, life with my mother, my first day of school at the little red school house, walking into town for ice cream sundaes when the truck was broke and Pa was passed out, Mama brushin my hair for the school dance. Bits and pieces of Mama came and went. My heart was disintegrating slowly into pieces. When the door opened, I was yhinking it would be the paramedics. I tried to stand, but my jelly legs wouldn’t let me. I lifted my head from where it rested at Mama’s shoulder to see my father. He stood there in the doorway with rope and a shovel.