The Current

For many years, the river apologized for its banks.

Whenever it flooded, it apologized.

Whenever it changed course, it apologized.

Whenever it carried away a bridge built carelessly across its body, it apologized.

The villages grew accustomed to this. They spoke of the river as though it were a servant. They drew maps and called them laws. They placed stones in its path and expected obedience.

And because the river was patient, they mistook patience for weakness.

One winter, deep beneath the ice, the river learned a simple truth.

A river is not responsible for the comfort of those who forget what it is.

Spring arrived.

The river did not become angry. It did not seek revenge. It did not roar or rage.

It simply stopped apologizing.

The old stones disappeared beneath the current.

The fragile bridges vanished.

The maps became useless.

People stood on the shore and complained that the river had changed.

But the river knew better.

It had not changed at all.

It had merely remembered that it was moving toward the sea long before anyone arrived to name it.