GOOD-BYE
Michael Bartlett
I leaned on the parapet and watched the river flowing under the bridge. The water looked grey and uninviting. Where the end of the bridge met the High Street I could see traces of frost sparkling in the gleam of street lamps. Over there was light and the hint of warmth. Out here on the bridge it was lonely and cold. That was what I wanted.
I felt lonely and cold.
I remembered this same scene as it had been in the summer. I remembered my first glimpse of the river. Judy and I had come from the High Street. We had stopped for lunch on our way north and we had wanted a stroll before getting back in the car. We followed the twisting road out beyond the end of the shops and suddenly we were on the bridge.
"Oh look! There’s the river!" said Judy.
"So, it is!" I said.
It was all the more surprising because we had both forgotten that this was a riverside town. To us it was just another place on the map. That day we had not stayed long. We found the place attractive and we wanted to explore, but we did not have the time.
"We'll come again," said Judy, "When we have more time to spare.”
We had come again. We made several more visits, most of them fairly short. Then, after certain details had been arranged, we made a longer one. This time we stayed ten years.
Together the two of us had explored the towpath in each direction. Downstream it led, after about a mile, to a tiny lock with heavy wooden gates that strained shut against the current. I tried to explain to Judy how it worked, but she could never really understand. "I can't see why it's needed," she would say. "Why not let the water just flow?"
My son was born in this town. I remember Judy wheeling the pram along the towpath, her skirt flaring in the light breeze. We used to stand on the bank just below Gibson's jetty and throw stones at pieces of wood drifting by on the current. Then Judy would rummage in the basket attached to the pram and throw stale bread for the ducks. She would always believe that they were hungry. That they would starve to death if she did not feed them. She would ignore me when I pointed out all the o
ther people doing the same thing. I will never forget those afternoons. The colour of her
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clothes would contrast with the white and brown of the ducks, and when she turned to me, her head on one side, I would wish that I had the skill of an artist to capture her, the pram, the ducks and the river and bind them all together for eternity.
But that was the summer and ten years ago. Now the winter had come again. The ducks were supplemented by seagulls fleeting from the coast. The soft green of the trees had changed to wiry branches that snapped in your face as you pushed through them.
I leaned on the parapet and watched the river. It was a different place in the winter. But one day the gulls would leave and return to the sea. One day the trees would soften back into green. One day the summer would transform this river to the idyll it had been once. At least it would for others. For me the winter had come to stay.
I stood back from the bridge parapet and turned my back on the river. I had given ten years of my life to this town. My son had been born here. But now the madness that had engulfed the world had even touched us here down by the river. Summer would come to this spot again, but I would not see it. I would always remember it as I saw it now. For I had matured several years in as many months. And Judy? Well, Judy was dead.
From BBC Short Stories
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GOOD-BYE
别了，夏日小镇
•  我伏在桥栏上，凝望着桥下。桥下的河水阴沉暗淡，没有一丝意趣。桥头的路灯洒着幽幽的寒光，寒光下的霜花晶晶闪亮。远处灯火烁烁，透着融融的暖意；桥上却空空荡荡，冷冷清清，这正是我想要的体验，一阵无奈的孤寂和寒意向我袭来。
•  此时此刻，我不由想起第一次见到这座桥、这条河的情景。那是个夏天，我和朱迪开车去北方，途中经过这个小镇，就在这个小镇上吃了午饭。吃完午饭，我和朱迪打算先顺便转转再继续开车赶路。
pushed
于是，我们就顺着店铺林立的小街一路转了过来，无意之中就转到了这座桥上。
•  “瞧，河！”朱迪说道。
•  “可不是！”
•  原来这是个河滨小镇，我和朱迪居然都给忘了！我和朱迪一路上看着地图由南往北开，经过一个又一个城镇，这个小镇只不过是沿途要经过的一个小地方，所以才没有太留意。这个小镇景不错，本想仔细看看，可当时急着要赶路，就没有多呆。
•  朱迪说：“等以后有时间再来吧。”
•  后来，我和朱迪是来过几次，不过大都来去匆匆。再后来作了一些细致的安排后，我和朱迪又来到这个小镇上，呆了较长一段时间，这一呆就是十年。 •  我和朱迪时常循着纤夫的足迹沿河岸漫步。顺流而下一英里的地方有一个小水闸，厚实的木头闸门紧闭着，切断了流水。这个小水闸是用来干什么的，我讲给朱迪听。可是，朱迪似懂非懂的，总是说：“为什么要切断河水不让它往下流呢？”
•  在这个小镇上，我和朱迪有了孩子。朱迪推着童车，循着纤夫的足迹在河边漫步，裙子在清风中飘曳着。我和朱迪常常站在吉布森码头下面的堤岸上，朝顺流飘来的木头扔石子。看见鸭子时，朱迪就会从挂在童车上的筐里些剩面包扔过去。朱迪总觉得这些鸭子吃不饱，不喂点儿东西就会饿死。我
指给朱迪看，跟她说，这些鸭子别人喂着呢，饿不死，她就是不听。那些日子，我永远都不会忘记。朱迪的衣裙彩鲜艳，鸭子的毛白褐相间，相映成趣。朱迪转过身来看着我，头微微地歪着。每当这时，我就会感慨自己没本事，不会绘画，不能将朱迪、童车、流水和水中的鸭构成的生动画面描摹下来，永远珍藏起来。
•  这一切都是夏日的往事了，过去十年了，现在又是冬天了。河里，鸭子有飞来的海鸥做伴。岸上，树木已经叶落枝枯，穿行在树丛中，枯枝拍打着你的脸庞，发出噼噼啪啪的声响。
•  我伏在桥栏上，凝望着这条河，冬日里的这条河已经是别样的一番景象了。不过，严冬终会过去，夏日还会来临，海鸥会重返大海，树木还会枝青叶绿，这条河流还会如田园诗般美丽如画。可是，那是在别人的眼中。在我的心里，严冬却不会消融。
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•  我转过身来，背对着河流，望着眼前的这个小镇。在这个小镇上，我和朱迪度过了十年的光阴，有了爱的结晶。
•  夏日还会来临，可来临的却再也不是往日的夏天了。在我的心中．这个小镇将永远都是严冬。天灾人祸连这个小镇也没能躲过！短短的几个月，我老了很多很多——朱迪不在了。
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A Valentine to One Who Cared
-Too Much (1)
by Nancy J. Rigg
It's raining, again. As I lie awake in bed, listening to the sound of those razor-sharp drops pounding on the pavement, my mind goes reeling down dark corridors teeming with agonizing flashbacks, and a chill from within fills me with dread. It's raining, again.
It does this every year in Southern California; at least that' s what they told me last year when I marveled at the relentless determination of the rain. There seem to be two seasons here. During the rainy season, sometimes the storms drench the area nonstop for days. Sometimes the storms come and go. Often property damage and disrupted lives result. It's hard to predict the intensity of the patterns from year to year. Then there is the fire season. That takes care of the property that manage
d to survive the deluge, again disrupting lives. The days connecting these seasons are monotonous, with some sun, some smog and some more sun. This is nothing like back home in Colorado.
We have rains there, too. Thunderstorms in spring and summer often come with intensity great enough to cause flash-flooding. Every child raised in the West knows about these dangers. At least that's what 1 used to think. I’m not so sure anymore. In second grade, they showed us a terrifying film about flash-flooding. A man parked his 57 Chevy on a little bridge overlooking a picturesque, and gully and took out his camera. It was starting to rain, but he really wanted to get that picture. The image of a sudden wall of dark water carrying the man and his car away in an instant is still imprinted on my mind. They used this kind of scare tactic when I was growing up. I wonder what they use today.
A year ago I would have sworn that children here are taught nothing about the dangerous powers of nature. My fiance, Earl Higgins, and I had recently moved to Los Angeles from Colorado. It was a move we had made by choice, for career purposes. About a week and a half after we moved into an apartment in Atwater, a block from the Los Angeles River, the rains started in earnest. On Valentine's Day, I remember thinking what dismal weather it was for being in love, but after studying Earl's face I knew that the weather didn't matter much. At least that' s what I thought. Because we were together,
life was safe and secure. We talked of our plans to wed and start a family, once we were settled in Los Angeles, and we listened to the rain.
The Sunnynook footbridge connects Atwater with Griffith Park, spanning the Los Angeles River and the Golden State Freeway. Like the freeway, the river is fenced to keep people out. During several walks to the park, Earl and I had noticed many children who ignored the fences and found holes to allow them through in order to play in the dirt in the river bed and run up and down the sloping concret banks. Most of the time parents probably have no worry about their kids playing in the concrete channel, because most of the time the river is dry. Habits form, however, and, in a child's mind, most of the time becomes all of the time, and nobody gives it much thought. Then the rains come. (to be continued)
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