Though I have yet to hear it, I know the small river will have a voice. It will have a voice childish in play, raw in wisdom, soothing in tone. I know this, for I have heard its voice many times.  

I bring with me other voices. Our voices. The voices of how we once talked with one another. 

These voices, the small river and us, will dart between the sound of current, ravens and hawks, the creaking of tall evergreens as their branches rub against each other. If you were going with me, I would have told you how baby hawks cry when their parents have gone hunting for them. But you don’t need to hear this and you won’t. 

I’ve gone missing, right in front of you. I could have told you to never be in the forest when it’s snowing. Not even a small river can tell you the way back. And today, perhaps, I will not want to find my way back. ......But I will. I know this before I reach it. 

For a short period of time, when I see the small river, I will no longer miss you, whoever you are, for I know your voice, but I do not know you and you do not know me. I have never felt the bones beneath your skin, the slight roughness of your lips. I have not smelled the scent of your favorite oil. I’ve never heard your song muffled between the walls of our house leaking out into the hallway. 

I do know the small river will be strewn with boulders mixed in its current. There will be channels, and miniature rapids will have formed. Even these small rivers have different types of flows. 

There will be an occasional chipmunk running into the brush, the distant echo of a bird. The wind will flirt with these sounds. Then, without warning, the wind will drown out all voices. Even those of my quiet steps in the snow where would-be tears make no imprint.