Ice coats the river top after so many days and nights of
subfreezing temperatures, though I only get a glimpse of it through the trees when
in the past I could see all of it from the office window, a memory of a long
extinct situation, after so many years, and yet, I still see her face reflected
in the glass, stark in the chilly sunlight, as frigid as I feel, this river is
her river as well as my river, her shape rising through it with the shivering
mists, each time I look out at it, I see her, miss her, though like all
memories, she is a wisp of something that no longer exists, a figment in a
dream I refuse to wake from, insist on clinging to it, even though I know she
does not cling to me. This is her river I visit again and again even in the
dead of winter.
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