Everywhere a River

I do remember darkness, how it snaked

through the alders, their ashen flanks

in our high-beams the color of stone.

That hollow slap as floodwater hit

the sides of the car. Was the radio on?

Had I been asleep?

Sometimes you have to tell a story

your entire life to get it right.

Twenty-two and terrified, I had married you

but barely knew you. And for forty years

I’ve told this story wrong. In my memory

you drove right through it, the river

already rising on the road behind us,

no turning around.

But since your illness I recall it

differently. Now that I know it’s possible

to lose you, I’m finally remembering

it right. That night,

you threw that car in reverse,

and gunned it. You found us

another way home.