The river flows heavy, loaded with barges. An yellow fall river in its ochre mood that supercedes rain. Two men are eating their lunch on the other shore of the river. One sits on a tree trunk . The other sits on a waterproof winter coat laid on the grass. But their legs arch in the same way; the ankles touch and the knees face outwards. One eats a sandwich from a Ziploc bag. The other eats warm food from a Tupperware container. They talk. Or not.
Perhaps they face the river with the same bare look, stripped of any expression, finding nothing to say to each other.
Maybe they are observing me as I am noticing them :
in a brown coat
eating her lunch
on a green wooden table
- the picnic area by the bike trail.
I wave. But they do not respond. And I wonder if we are looking at the same river. There are rivers in other places that are heavy with dead bodies .
I used to know men and women that came from those places. They are eating in silence, chewing their food slowly. Still. As you try to warm up the chat by describing the local food places and foodstuffs, they face you with blank eyes. And you know they are not watching you or the red leaves of what the locals call blood bushes. All they can see are their own memories frozen mid-air among dead leaves.
History is a stalker. **
*Liraz is a friend I never met (for she is O's friend and he is my friend too).
I was told that she starts any explanation with "There are too few things in this world meant to be forgotten". So this is for you Liraz.
** the russian stalker (Сталкер) is a guide.
More answers to the prompt here : Readwritepoem #99