The Slough

The Slough

He stood on the bank of a meandering slough. It was a wide, shallow depression choked with cattails and cottonwoods. It was spring and the green vegetation and flowering dogwoods were splendid. He had been here many times, but suddenly, nothing was familiar. He thought that returning here often would provide solace and comfort. He could walk along the slough, eat fresh wild apples and watch birds in the willows and bulrushes. He had ambled along here for many years with only his thoughts as a companion.

But today, he just stood with an emptiness that he hadn’t felt before. There were too many changes that reminded him of deep losses. Fences, built by father and son, were now fallen and unkempt. The old cottonwood tree that rose along the far bank had died and fallen. And without the old McCullough chainsaw to turn it into cordwood, it was rotting away. The old corral and shed, where the twin Hereford bulls were dropped, was gone. The farmhouse, without the care of a proud and attentive farm-wife, was dilapidated.

So, with a final, sad realization that things would never be the same, he turned to walk away forever. Time, with one last tug, pulled fading memories from his hand and dropped them at his feet. Instead of picking them up again, he turned and walked away, realizing it would be much easier to just forget.

Matt Radford