It was in August four years ago that he coaxed and cajoled until I agreed to go with him.
I had once been hurled against a rock by a smaller calmer river and was scared.
He promised he wouldn’t let me fall from his raft, a promise he kept.
Strong, commanding, professional; he knew what he was doing and didn’t take chances.
He proved himself so capable that I stopped worrying about his river runs.
What mom could begrudge an adventure that restores the smile to her son’s eyes?
It was a river I’ve never seen, a river in Guatemala near Lanquin that swept him away.
Our grandson will raft another river without him this year.
I remain on dry land crying tiny streams of tears.