Henrietta: A Summer Love
by Joe Cottonwood
I do not claim to own this creek
but it flows through my property
and perhaps I own each day’s gurgle
that wakes me, and beds me, alone
after a winter of slow goodbye.
Today, a new sound: splash and thrash.
A salmon the size of an otter
struggles upstream over gravel,
pool to pool where she rests, gathers strength
for the next leap and spurt
driven by a memory she does not remember.
Nine miles from the Pacific she stops
at this dark pool under my footbridge.
In a drought year, no farther. Henrietta,
I christen thee after my favorite aunt
who has your face.
I do not claim to own this fish
but all summer she hovers in shadow,
fins barely moving, facing upstream.
Water enters, water departs
too shallow each way for escape.
At the post office I happen to meet Debbie,
a biologist who knows salmon, who also knows loss.
Something compels me to bring her to my bridge.
A secret. In a town of anglers, we tell no one else.
Debbie says Henri is waiting for a lover.
Next day, and next, Debbie drops by.
I’m not sure why. Together, daily we watch.
Henrietta says little. Avoids eye contact.
Same with Debbie who says they often starve.
Waiting to spawn, they die.
One morning, October, I awake to the rush of rain.
I run to the bridge where Debbie is already waiting.
Her hand on my shoulder. Mine, hers.
Henrietta is gone.
Debbie says Henri might return next spring.
Please, she says, call me if and when.
I am still waiting.
Strange, the signs we miss.
The love. The fish.
PAINTING: Spawning Salmon by Julie, used by permission.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: The “I” of this poem is actually a good friend of mine whose creek became the summer rest stop of a fish that he named Henrietta. Taking weekly walks with my friend I always paused to visit Henrietta, so I am the Debbie of the poem. From such waters, the poem swam away and took on a life of its own. I am still waiting for my friend to chew me out about this.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Joe Cottonwood is a semi-retired contractor with a lifetime of repairing homes and writing books. He lives with his high school sweetheart under giant redwood trees in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California where he dodges wildfires while caring for curly-haired dogs and straight-haired grandchildren. His latest book is Random Saints. More at joecottonwood.com.
Silver Birch Press 
Wow. I could see your bridge and Henrietta. Beautiful writing, Joe.
Thank you Maria!
And do we sometimes starve and die waiting, missing all the signs?? Lovely work.
You caught the longing. So nice.
Reblogged this on dean ramser.
superb
The poem that didn’t get away. Thanks, Joe.
An emotional poem, a brilliantly crafted poem, a poem that pulled me in and had me worried for Henrietta. I wish I could be there next year. Thank you, Joe Cottonwood, for another remarkable work.
Gorgeous. Thank you.
Update: July 1, 2021 — Henrietta is back!!!
Hopefully Henrietta will pass a quiet summer in the pool under the bridge. With the drought this year, the creek has too little flow for her to go upstream or down. She flutters almost imperceptibly, facing upstream, feeding on micro bio stuff carried by the water. My friend “Debbie” tells me this is probably not the same Henrietta but an offspring or great-offspring returning to the place of its birth.