Steam Laundry

Remembering the River Crossing

137 Remembering the River Crossing —Seattle, Washington, May 1908 In the room you hear the sound of brown river water, the wake lapping behind the canoe. You sit in the bow. Your fingers smooth your skirt, puffed along the gunwale. You smell the wet dog hunched between your knees, scratch his ears, and tighten your grip on his collar. You’ll wash his muddy paw prints out of your hem tomorrow. You hear sounds of the morning, creaking of stove doors, and the ticking of iron as it heats. You hear the purr of the kettle. You think This is the morning before you remember there is no morning as long as you keep your eyes shut. Then you see the canoe overturned against the log wall, buried in snow, the canoe on the water trailing a wake, the canoe loaded with moose from upriver. Then you wonder if the bed is solid. You never wondered that about the dirt, the road, the wooden boardwalk. You crossed the river ice, back and forth all winter, and never thought of the rushing gurgle waiting underneath. You never questioned mud. 138 There was always a bottom to the river and the spring was always soggy, but something stopped you from sinking: sewing, washing, sweeping, cooking, talking. There was always the burn of the axe handle against palms. You remember the final stitch on the binding of the quilt, spreading it out on the table, admiring the hours of rocking and stitching, the colors and cutting, and how the red square in the middle whispered to the needle and thread. That red as red as the raspberries in the jam jars. When you lifted the last jar out, the water roiled on, furious and empty, hissing and rumbling, before it cooled its surface back to glass. The sunlight gloried in the ruby jars on the table, but had nothing to say. Outside the window, the river, muddily determined, kept passing by. Inside the room you can’t hear a sound. ...