Where the River Hid the Sky: A Bayou Tale of Memory, Mist, and the Unknown
An old man remembers a river that wasn’t on any map—a place where memory swam, time bent, and the bayou held more than just water.
A story told by an old man who once got turned around in the bayou
They say the land remembers. But rivers—
Rivers don’t forget a thing.
Years ago, before roads ran straight and fast and before people stopped listening to trees, I got lost out past where folks say not to go. The kind of lost where you’re not sure if you’re walking in circles or just chasing your own breath.
And I found a river. Or maybe it found me. It wasn’t on any map, and it didn’t look like the others. It didn’t roar or gurgle. It just sat quiet. Still. Like it was thinking.
The air around it was thick, and everything smelled like rain and dirt and something sweet I couldn’t place. The mist hung low, and for a second I thought maybe I was dreaming. But I wasn’t. I could feel it. It felt like the place had been waiting on me.
I stepped in. Water cold enough to make me gasp. But I kept going. Felt like swimming through memory. I don’t know how to say it right, but it wasn’t scary. It was like the river knew me. Knew all the things I’d tried to forget.
When I came back out, everything was quiet. Not like before. Like something had shifted. Like I’d left something behind and picked up something older in its place.
I never found it again. I looked, of course. Spent years trying to go back. Asked around. Nobody believed me. Or they did, but they just smiled and wouldn’t say much.
All I know is, if you ever find yourself out there and the wind changes and you smell sweetgrass where there shouldn’t be any—don’t think too hard. Just follow it.
You won’t find the river. But maybe the river’ll find you.
Inspired by the Lost River monologue in Scorchers (1991) and offered in respect to the mystery that still lives deep in the bayou.
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