Everywhere a RiverI do remember darkness, how it snakedthrough the alders, their ashen flanksin our high-beams the color of stone.That hollow slap as floodwater hitthe sides of the car. Was the radio on?Had I been asleep?Sometimes you have to tell a storyyour entire life to get it right.Twenty-two and terrified, I had married youbut barely knew you. And for forty yearsI’ve told this story wrong. In my memoryyou drove right through it, the riveralready rising on the road behind us,no turning around.But since your illness I recall itdifferently. Now that I know it’s possibleto lose you, I’m finally rememberingit right. That night,you threw that car in reverse,and gunned it. You found usanother way home.