It begins with a splash, then rushing down the unknown riv-er of life, each unique as Heraclitus said, around and through each oxbow and rapids, no doubt ending at an astonishing waterfall.

     That visceral memory still wakes me after all these years, a recurring nightmare of bone-chilling cold water. Salty, in my mouth, and the burn in my eyes. The big man behind me pushes me up and I dog-paddle toward the white ship with the big red cross. People surround me in the water, crying, swimming. My life vest is too big, the straps loose, and the big man lifts me when a swell splashes over. I am tired and my arms are heavy. I swallow seawater with each wave. Some people are sinking, and their heads disappear. He hollers at me in Mandarin, his hard face close to mine. “Help me help you; swim!” We reach the ship and he boosts me up to the thick, hanging rope net and I grab hold and pull myself out of the cold water. It is like the playground bars, and I climb to the top.

     I sit shivering on the deck next to the big man, as a nice woman in white dries me with a towel and wraps me with a blanket. He tousles my hair, then he looks at me and tears come from his eyes. I can tell he is thinking of someone else. His muscled hand is not too rough, though I still flinch when he reaches out. I lose track of the big man, and when the ship fills with so many people from the water like me, I don’t see him again until days later.
The nice woman points me to a doorway to descend into the ship, but I duck to the side and stay by the railing to watch everyone else come up the net. I am short and it is noisy and crowded, so I can hide by the rail. The tiny boat is now empty. It drifts away from the ship. Its sail flaps in the wind and it bobs sideways as the ship’s engines vibrate the deck and our big ship turns away.

     I forgot to mention the fast jet that roars over our boat just before the white ship pulls nearby. Everyone screams and many are praying. But the ship is near and people on its deck are watching, and nothing bad happens.

     When everyone is on board and the fishing boat grows smaller behind us, the jet returns. It flies low over the little boat. Fire shoots from the jet and there is a huge explosion, and the boat is gone. I watch the pile of drifting wood where it had been. The jet streaks away. I hear my heart beating in my chest like a drum. The nice woman in the white dress is back and she takes me inside the ship.

     “How old were you when this happened?”

     I am suddenly brought back to 2125. To my grandson. To my story. Grandson sits at the table, eating eggs and bacon. He has a full head of black hair, as much as I ever had, but his is curly. Do his cheekbones resemble mine? He has an oval face with an attractive chin, like so many in our family. Sadly, I see few signs of his grandmother in him, except for a softness around his mouth and fullness to his lips. His arms are tanned and muscular, more than expected for a fourteen-year-old boy, like he spends time outdoors doing heavy labor. His eyes are alive for the first time since he arrived near sunrise. Some of the trapped expression he wore then has disappeared. I’ll tell him stories for a while and let him decide when to tell me his story.