Mimir's Price: A Short Story

Decent Essays
Mimir’s Price

The sound of a lazy brook, babbling its story night and day, always fills me with peace. Running water through forests and rocks creates Beta waves in the brain. Maybe the thousands of asian temples devoted to hundreds of philosophies knew this. Whether National Geographic or some other documentary these grand temples that have stood for generations always have some talkative stream near by. I am not sure about the science involved, but I can say I’ve heard the lullaby of water playing with the small pools that rocks make. The sound always carried the comfort of Summer visitations with my dad in Northern California. Water has defined that area of the Golden State through the hour hand of geologic time. Water has been
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Early morning mist settled over the calm water, reflecting the first red light of a day devoted to fishing. The odd year a blizzard came in June and drove all the other campers away It felt like the world belonged only to us. We’d stand on a rocky point casting fishing lines out. I saw my Father framed by snow clouds running down the mountain side as he calmly fished. The water lapping my feet, cold as my hands in the biting breeze. It was a quiet three days being marooned with small the sound of lapping water on rocks and…show more content…
I would see my Father less than I liked. Yet the sounds of playful water always ferried me to his trailer next to the creek. Even the urban sound of rain in a gutter can sweep serenity to my troubled mind if I stopped to listen. I can not help but feel my body diminish when near the churns and gurgles of young streams. The sounds are the keys to memories which come when called. Water always brings them to me in what ever order they choose. Soon they will be the only ones left of the moments spent me and Dad alone. Time has its own currents and eddies bringing us to our fates. The Norse even talked of Fate as a the banks of a river, and the person as the current. Alzheimer's has become my Father’s fate, and time now works the peaks and valleys of his mind. My Father and friend wakes each day to the slow eroding of memories like the current cutting the wide channel of the Yuba River Gorge. Like the gold we sought our time exposed and washed away from his mind. I cannot say what he will last recall. My hope is that it would be the playful tune of my beloved
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