The bench on which I sat, watching the Savannah River steadily ebb and flow just a few feet away, seemed to be the proper place for me to sort out, in my own mind, the crossroads at which I currently found myself. I had traveled the country over and whenever situations got out of my control, my solution was to hop a plane and escape back to this old and matronly city.
Savannah was my mothers milk, the warm bosom, the soft shoulder on which to cry and let all the suffering out. She would envelope me in the arms of her summer warmth and her river winds would blow away the darkness in my tormented soul. She was the one place in the world I could hide from the angst of my life.
River Street, it’s cobblestones laying in wait for foolish women in high heels, was the place I could mingle unrecognized and be far from the madding crowd. Tourists from all over still came to explore the city but She hid so much in the layers of her many petticoats, that eyes only scanned for historical markers thus allowing all who roamed her streets to remain as anonymous as shadows at dusk. .
The dark side of life had taken it’s toll on me and I had come back to decide if it was time to reinvent myself, yet again. This place and only this place, with it’s nature of being a mirror to my life, could help me to find my answers.
The river, ever rushing, never seemed to tire of it’s determination to arrive or leave. It did what was expected and never wavered from its’ destiny. Evidently it remained much more content with it’s lot in life than I. The city herself, old and often overwhelmed, had survived many types of invasions during Her lifetime. I equated those to the invasions of my own heart and soul, yet felt that I was far more damaged than she.
Her age and wisdom spoke to me only when I came to pay homage in person. “Allow me to soothe your wounds, the ones felt yet unseen”, I could hear her whisper to me, “Have Patience, my dear, time, yes time, is all you need.”
I continued to watch the river. While I remained stuck at my crossroad, it continued on it’s path. With a sigh, I resigned myself to listen and pay closer attention yet again. There would be no found answers here, at this moment, on this bench. Healing is a slow process and I would just have to listen to my Mother.
Monday: Bench on a cobblestone street.