It smells of green today. Of spring’s first chilly presence, tripping ‘round the trees, as the wind sings of water rushing paths through quickening forests, and I taste the sweet memory of a small boy stomping his way through mud, and yelling, “dumb shish” into ears of innocent, unconcerned trout.

A royal welcome, Queen Anne spills her lace over grandmother’s fence, and readies it for bouquets—for that small boy’s bride. Jasmine and orange blossoms sing of budding summers, just begun, as they trail toward stone inscriptions of happy everafters; and we are children still, unseen from our rooftop, throwing small missiles.

Thick mud and Texans couldn’t impede our small Beetle’s progress toward the chilly thrills of the river, where blameless trout still hide in shadows. We took to the warmer refuge of the tiny wooden cabin, where MikeTheDog signed beds with tracks, muddy, wet. A chamber pot still sits in the corner, if the cabin still stands. The ancient tin of Saltines stood then as a relic, but a welcome sight to tiny fish-denying mouths.

The wind rushes through the trees, and I can feel Grandpa Jim’s hand fall heavy on my head, as he casts his rod into the water. His blue eyes, so far away and calm. This is his perfect place, his paradise. He lights his cigarette, the smoke mimics the river and floats away, while the small boy derides the fish. The unnoticed verbal missiles give way to a toddler rage, as he stomps the river edge, alarming with his shadow.

My small boy no longer scares the fishes, but whispers kind things to them, finding paradise in the same space as his grandfather, father. My exemplar for life, I wilt for my inability to follow his steps. When I am lost, it is him that I look to for my path, to see it more clearly through the debris. I know of no other human in possession of a compass as true. He follows his heart.

The river is there, always and never. Wind-blown tents sit under shaking leaves and chilly morning dew, alongside the river’s rushing. Rough stones are smoothed over time, and we are all swept away from the whole. Our roots grow longer, and new beginnings are added, and the boy has grown, and for the first time I do not see boredom in Grandpa Jim’s paradise, but feel the tranquility and the verdant infection of a calm, thrilling sense of beginning and renewal.

Clouds speed their way across the sky, and everything thrills, shouts, into the canyons with the renewed vigor of a promise.