The girl expects a wave as she steps into the shallow wooden boat but the water holds calm. Motion is trapped as it squeezes between an assembly of vessels their interiors painted blue or red or green.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cKa,\u201d the woman seated at the back says and points to herself. She wears a pubescent pink sweat suit and a cone straw hat. Her feet hold the oars steady. The toenails are crinkled and caramel, consumed by the trade. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The girl sits on the low wooden plank at the front. Her long legs almost fall into her chest. A fine mist cools her forehead. With feline precision, Judyth eases into position next to her. She stands up again and folds her jacket three times to cushion her frail pubic bones. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood idea,\u201d Iris says and copies her friend before she drops onto the plank behind them with the energy of a person half her age. Hers is a swirling elegance. The worn wood creaks but the sound is fleeting as if the boat has been expecting them and doesn\u2019t want to ruin the moment by drawing attention to itself. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ka exchanges words with another rower. Then she pushes off with her feet and they\u2019re caught by the intimacy of the lake. Rousing shore chatter is drowned by the dripping purr of diving oars, and the clanking of the wood against the hips of the sampan. Judyth closes her eyes to zoom into conversations of nature \u2013 birds, crickets, bats, toads create a steady transmission like pursed lips blowing on metallic wire. There\u2019s madness to serenity. The girl follows the old woman\u2019s lead but her mind drifts to picture his triangular ears \u2013 elvish<\/em>, she called them. She must open her moist eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour mother should have come,\u201d Iris says and exhales all she\u2019s held onto. The thick scent of diesel is displaced by a washy mix of fresh, spicy sweetness, and rotten eggs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHer knees are bad,\u201d the girl says. \u201cShe worried there was going to be more walking.\u201d But the girl is glad her mother hasn\u2019t come because it\u2019s a chance to know what it\u2019s like to travel by herself. The last time was with him. Switzerland. Full-time walking. He held her hand to cross the waterfall ravine; a melted glacier gushing beneath the bridge. Kindness dilutes fear. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Iris takes off her shoes and rests the shins on the wooden edges for the naked feet to dangle above the water. Her legs are covered in red bumps but she has no need to scratch the itch. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s calm out her. Not like the city,\u201d Iris says. The women are glad to have escaped the surging cars that dress the sky in a torrent of fog, the array of sky scrapers in which voices layer like tar, and the thinned attempts by nature to communicate through wire cages. And that last part always makes the girl forget to swallow: that we give up nature for money only to need it so badly that we ship it to where it doesn\u2019t want to be and build fences to keep it there. He called her radical<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow long are you staying for?\u201d Iris asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s our final stop. We\u2019re flying home in three days,\u201d the girl says and bends to her left to stroke the water. It looked dirty from the shore, but now she can see the river weeds below. Is it really her face in the glassy surface? She hoped it would look different by now, infused with the collective experiences of the last two weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe started south and have been traveling north ever since,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Judyth mms and ahs, keeping her eyes closed, like she wants to be part of the conversation but is afraid to rise from her private pleasure. The warm air sinks like a soothing blanket over the women who have a propensity for the cold. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow about you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The pair have been travelling for the past two months. It began in Nepal, where they volunteered to help dispense natural remedies and medicines to pregnant women. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe enrol every year. It\u2019s a sobering experience. Harrowing.\u201d Iris speaks of the crippling poverty and how materialessness couldn\u2019t impoverish the souls of the locals. Starvation, however, can. The girl has never been forced to starve, only by choice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m always relieved to depart. Disappointed that there isn\u2019t more I can do to help,\u201d she says. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s only so much one can do,\u201d her friend professes and repositions the clip that tames her sprawling, grey mane. They\u2019ve known each other since college. That was 40 years ago. Judyth lives in Seattle. Iris moved her family to Philadelphia. She has been practicing holistic healthcare since the 80s. A certified midwife, she helps women navigate pregnancy and the postpartum year based on her deep understanding of spiritual philosophies, herbal medicinal approaches, and alternative healing techniques. Judyth is a founder of a Somatic Psychology program taught in San Francisco. She\u2019s an expert in Reichian psychotherapy and sensory awareness. Both women teach at workshops worldwide. They see one another once a year \u2013 on their passage through Asia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cReally, we\u2019re lifelong students,\u201d Judyth jokes. Even her laughter is frictionless, offering serenity never demanding it. It reminds the girl of his voice. He had swallowed velvet. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat does your mom do?\u201d Iris asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShe\u2019s retired. She reads a lot.\u201d Books on traditional Western medicine and the scientific discoveries that govern the secrets to eternal life. The girl cannot imagine to live forever; too much pain and sadness leak into the world. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Nepal was followed by Thailand. And the memory of it eases Judyth into a spatter of giggles and then the words rush out of her: elephant sanctuary, rescue and rehabilitation, more volunteering, community, most spiritual adventure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cElephants are such gentle creatures. If only we understood them better,\u201d she says and flattens the long skirt with the white elephants printed on it. A woman wrapped in empathy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou should go!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s a good thing you\u2019re too young for back aches. Those worn spring mattresses at the sanctuary left an imprint on my spine,\u201d Iris jokes like it\u2019s a key selling point. The girl\u2019s mother is hyper-sensitive to bad sleeping arrangements. The stiff neck brings about a crippling migraine. Pain is a lonely experience. The woman has shown her the world even though she\u2019ll often stay behind to attend massages and spa days. It is an admirable skill, to find contentment. The girl must dilute herself into all adventures. Maybe she\u2019ll go with a friend. Maybe he\u2019ll be her friend some day when they\u2019re both no longer crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Habit or affection, Iris separates the vibrant bracelets, at least twenty of them \u2013 beads and metal, and fabrics mingle against the tanned, wrinkled wrists. If each bracelet means a place she\u2019s visited, Iris has seen much of the world. Suddenly, Ka points to the limestone karsts cloaked in the curly hair of trees and shrubs. Green hill formations lift on all sides. The girl snaps pictures with her phone. She\u2019ll be showing them to her mother later, back in the room on the 54th<\/sup> floor of the hotel that is counting stars. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere will you go after this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHome,\u201d Judyth says. It is their last stop also. Before the girl left home, she wrote a letter to thank him for all the years. Before the airplane took off, he left a voicemail to thank her for the letter. She still remembers his words, a soup of humility and love, and respect. Home strikes her like a concept now; every inch a degree of separation between them. She sighs his name in her mind. And it makes her think of the poetry he wrote but never shared, and the two cups of coffee they each would drink in the morning alone \u2013 sometimes together \u2013 and the fox cubs in the garden they\u2019d throw stale bread out for. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs it strange to come back to a place of familiarity after being away for so long?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI like to think of it as a new space. That\u2019s why you travel,\u201d Judyth says. \u201cYou step into something familiar, but you\u2019ll be a slightly different person now, and so all is peculiar.\u201d The exploration continues.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI look forward to seeing my husband,\u201d Iris says softly. And the girl turns her face as a tear dislodges and plummets into the river, riding a wave of oar motion. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019ve got yourself a good one,\u201d her friend says. There\u2019ll be no one waiting for Judyth at the airport when she returns. There\u2019ll be no one waiting for the girl either, not anymore. But Judyth speaks of her solitude as if it is privilege. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd in those moments, where I need to see a face, I\u2019ll call a friend or go for a walk. One is never truly alone. It\u2019s a blessing and a curse.\u201d She speaks with an openness that requires practice. With trained precision, the sampan glides through the dark of a cave and into bustling reverberations. Its wooden bodice moans \u2013 the smallest movements echo here, caught between the stone walls. If she cried right now no one would see it. But a whimper would bounce forever. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDown,\u201d Ka shouts. And the women lean forward, pressing their torsos onto their thighs to avoid the stalactites from piercing their heads. They bend over until light oozes into the black and the vessel slips back into the heat of the afternoon sun. Iris takes the opportunity to sprawl out on her back on the hood of the boat. Her long white hair covers the creases of the neck, shielding their secrets from evaporation. Hair like the girl hopes hers to be at 70.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow blue can a sky be?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The girl looks up. A flock of white storks passes overhead. She cannot remember the last time she\u2019s seen a stork. They\u2019re probably extinct in England. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Boats overtake theirs now, eager for a competition. The rowers exchange friendly banter and erupt in juicy laughter. The shore emerges out of nowhere, too fast to negotiate acceptance of the end. The girl wipes the sweat from her forehead as the sampan slots into an opening along a row. The three women tip Ka and thank her. She nods and folds the bills into a purse that is strung around her neck. It is the girl\u2019s turn to disembark. She expects a ripple, but the water is still. Then a family of four rush forward and the sampan bemoans their enthusiasm. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Iris, Judyth, and the girl trot back to where the rest of the group congregate in a line to climb onto the refrigerated bus. The girl takes the single seat by the window. She leans her forehead against the chilled glass. Then the bus pulls out from a procession of coaches and turns onto the main road. The guide recites facts about the local history but the girl is drowsy now and closes her eyes, her body softly swaying side to side. \u201cIt was lovely to meet you,\u201d Iris says and hands her a piece of paper with their phone numbers. \u201cIf you\u2019re ever in Philly, come say hi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She stands up and hugs first Judyth then Iris. The women step from the bus. They interlink arms and wave to the girl beneath the neon sign that says Nice Silk Hanoi<\/em>. And in that moment, the girl forgets about the boy at home who broke her heart. And optimism secretes and shocks the body. Encrusted despair washes away and leaves residues of warm comfort. Every exhalation is weightless. With each blink of the eyelid a more saturated pixel emerges to form a snapshot of an opportunity. Suddenly all seems possible. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Then it is her stop. She steps from the bus into a flow of people. And she cannot wait to show her mother the pictures. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Anne Freier is a writer of fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry. Her foray into publishing began when, as a child, she self-published booklets on pet care that she sold in front of supermarkets to collect donations for the local animal shelter. Her first book is being published by a Berlin-based indie press in 2021. The girl expects a wave as she steps into the shallow wooden boat but the water holds calm. Motion is trapped as it squeezes between an assembly of vessels their interiors painted blue or red or green. \u201cKa,\u201d the woman seated at the back says and points to herself. She wears a pubescent pink sweat … <\/p>\n
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