Crossing the Demarara

On the way to the Parika ferry, first you cross the Demarara river, deep and dark, on the spine of a vintage world war 2 pontoon bridge, each steel plank shifting with the weight of your auto and the others that squeeze by coming from the opposite direction. They all drive on the left, you know. Former British Colony. More than a decade has passed since I saw this place, since I sat on the decrepit wooden docks where the Parika Ferry would disgorge its load of humans, sweet fig bananas, chickens in crates and carambola (aka starfruit). I had no intention back then, of sitting here tonight listening to the rain on the roof, tapping away at these keys, my grand adventure but a recollection. My intentions were much more interesting back then. My heart much more joyful and firm. The filter of time has made those moments seem better than they were. Either I will go mad, or continue my suburban slumber. If only my memory could not recall the dark, mysterious waters that lapped against my imagination. Perhaps then, I could be content with the monotonous sound of this Oregon rain.