Saturday, January 1, 2011
The mighty Magaguadavic. Magaguadavic is pronounced Mac-ah-davie where I am from. I’m sure the aboriginals who named it might pronounce it differently. It means “river of eels” because years ago it was full of them. Now only the eel grass remains. I am dreaming of its waters. I imagine myself curled up on soft river rock, tea coloured water caressing my thin legs. Then the water moves slowly up my body, using me like I am one of its rocks. My long hair tangles in the water with the eel grass and suddenly it is so warm and I am so happy and free. I want to fall asleep under the water. Is this rock bottom? Here is where my choice begins. I can choose to be swallowed by the river or somehow I can rise. But the river is so warm. I can taste it and smell it. I feel like a native warrior that slips into the river to gain strength after a bloody battle. I want to be that warrior but I am so scrawny and tired. I want to wear war paint on my face and have feathers in my hair. And people will see me and think that I am strong and brave. I’ll limp from battle wounds and people will think I am a survivor. They will never know about the dark moments, alone and afraid. Warriors don’t cry.