The Weight of the Current

The smell of wet earth—that heavy, iron-rich scent that rises when the riverbank finally surrenders to the rising tide—is a smell that clings to the back of the throat. It is the scent of transition. I remember the feeling of damp wood beneath my palms, the rough, splintered grain of a boat that has spent too many seasons drinking in the rain. There is a specific vibration in the soles of your feet when you stand on a vessel that is not quite solid, a rhythmic swaying that forces your muscles to tighten, to find a new center of gravity. We are never truly still; we are always held by something that is moving beneath us, pulling us toward a place we have not yet named. It is a quiet, persistent tugging at the marrow. Does the water remember the shape of the boat, or does it simply wash away the memory of our passage as soon as we reach the other side?

Nirupam Roy has captured this fleeting sense of departure in his image titled Ready to Leave. The way the horizon stretches out makes me feel the pull of the river against the hull. Can you feel the water waiting for you to let go?