It wasn’t too far from this place that I saw my first coyote, she told her daughter, and I remember because it wasn’t more than a few minutes after that when I saw the river change directions.

She felt her daughter’s eyes staring up from the six-year-old height of four feet, fingers locked into a belt loop, blind eyes paying lip service, waiting for another story to color in what those ears had been hearing for so long.

With one hand leading the way, she ran streams through her daughter’s dark hair. Coyotes are conical animals, she said. Imagine all the shapes you’ve already imagined, all moving toward a spot just beyond where your ears reach. When you get too close to the edge of the forest, and you know you’re close because at any moment you’ll come into contact with the sound of cars barreling along the highway. Only you hear them before they happen. Like when a man walks past you on a clear day, and just a bit of rain water falls from his shoulders onto your forehead, and you know somewhere it’s raining, and maybe the storm’s coming your way.

And that’s what this creature was like. Caught him staring at me from across the river. You remember the day, the first time you smiled back at me? That was what I mean by staring, that’s what it looks like to be looked at. The way the warm is sluicing through the leaves, the way it catches your face, this is the kind of day it was. Cooler, though. There was a breeze, the kind you feel in March now, instead of May. And I stopped, and watched him. And he watched me. But more than that. I could feel his mind like velvet against mine. Those were the eyes I was dealing with, right about when I was your age, and you were so far away.

Beat.

And then he winked. She took a palm and traced it over her daughter’s face, let her know where this next touch was coming from, and placed a palm over the right eye. There. That’s a wink. And it can mean so many things, so if you ever sense one coming your way, be careful. A wink can bring you closer to its origin, leave you cold, cheat, deceive, bond – there have been times in my life when a wink has changed the meaning of a conversation to the point where there was no turning back.

She withdrew her hand from her daughter’s face and placed it on a tiny shoulder. Funny I should put it to you like that, those last words. Because soon after, the coyote went scampering into the underbrush, and that was when I saw the river change.

Remember the big storm? You felt it in your tiny little snoot, tasted it before it happened? This was what it was like. Imagine if you woke up and your bed felt like the bath, or your breakfast was suddenly a bowl full of your building blocks. Not the way things are supposed to be, and it wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. But I didn’t have the same sense you do. I didn’t have your gift. I saw the river go from east to west, and it was the opposite of conical. This felt as though it were falling inwards. When your toes curl up, or you sleep on your side, arms bundled close, legs drawn up. Inverted, is the word. When your sweater tag doesn’t bother you on particular days. And it can be frightening, but it isn’t always bad. So I followed the new direction. Went upstream, the new downstream, thought I would see why this was. Answers to questions.

She sighed. Felt her daughter sigh along, picking up on the social cue. With only a moment or so to keep that moment going, she kept on. And after a few minutes of following the river, I saw a man. A large man. Feel your arms. Feel mine. Feel the difference. Then make it large. Make it enormous. Make those arms into the time you hugged a tree. Fell asleep against roots, those were his fingers. The table where you eat your cereal in the morning, those were his eyes. When you feel for the doorway to our home, that was his mouth. He was a giant. Lying down, belly down, and that mouth was open, and he was swallowing the river. You’ve walked across it before, you know how large he must have been, he was swallowing the river. I couldn’t see his teeth. Maybe they weren’t there. But the river kept flowing into his mouth, and when he looked at me, shifted his thoughts – the way you sometimes do – I could hear what he had to tell me. He told me, in my mind:

Her name will be Samantha. And I will have something to tell her.

I don’t remember how that moment ended. In the time it takes for your bath to drain, I was suddenly walking alone, back through the woods.

But now, here we are. At the same spot, where the river ended in a giant, open mouth.

Samantha gave her mother a hug. “And now we wait.”

She nodded. Put the basket down, filled with sandwiches, juice boxes, fresh fruit, and a bag of carrot sticks. Reached in and pulled out a red-and-white checkered blanket. Laid it flat.

That’s right, Samantha’s mother said. And I made us a picnic to help pass the hours.

Samantha smiled.

Listened to the river and sat down to eat with her mother, as the two of them waited for the time when the coyote winked, the water changed course, and the giant man warned of a day when he would return to tell Samantha something important, because only Samantha was capable of listening.

# # #

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so long and thanks for all the pish.