Where the River Remembers

A Morning of Silence, Memory, and Eels

He got up before the sun. It was cold—the kind of cold that rises from the river and lingers in your bones, no matter how warmly you dressed. He didn’t mind; the cold was part of it.

Elias moved among the dark trees. They were now bare, with their limbs reaching out over the bank like something long forgotten. The boat was where he left it—half hidden in the reeds, half in shadow. It was heavily worn, just like him, from the years.

He gently pushed away from the dock. The hull remained silent. The river stayed still. He rowed smoothly. The blade dipped into the water. The water embraced it. He knew where the traps were.

There were eels in the river’s muddy bottom, though fewer each year. Elias had set the traps the night before. Quiet work. He did it carefully. You had to. The eels moved at night. They did not speak. They only moved out of hunger.

The windmill stood across the water, still and dark. A black cross against the pale sky. Birds flew past silently.

He located the first trap and slowly pulled it up. It was empty, as is often the case. The next one held a catch—a thick, dark object writhing in the net. He worked quietly, with no one to talk to.

He kept going until he reached his limit. Enough was all he ever needed.

When the light turned gold and the frost disappeared from the bank, he guided the boat back. The eels lay coiled on the bottom, slick, cold, and alive.

The tree leaned over the dock as if it remembered. He tied the boat to the derelict dock.

That was all there was. Elias didn’t think about tomorrow.