The River

I have walked this perilous path for sixty-nine years. Behind me a river runs along it. At first far off. As the years progress, the path grows harder; choked by weeds and thistles; a hill ever steeper; legs ever weary; mind ever befuddled. I am beginning to feel the maniacal mouth ready to engulf and overtake me. Shall I wait, tracking timeworn memories as the hill grows ever steeper; weeds ever thicker; thistles ever piercing senile skin? I can feel the river's spray upon my face now. I hear the pitiless laughter. I wait resigned to my fate.