With the Current

I walked along the Charles today. Toward Boston, just far enough to see the city and the Museum of Science that rests at the end. Sometimes I walk under the trees that cover the path; other times, right next to the road with the ongoing traffic. It is quietest near the finish line of the Head of the Charles, tucked away.

Today, in the slow evening moments before the sunset, before the lights on the sides of the bridges glimmered, it is peaceful. Just crisp enough for a jacket, just warm enough for a sweater. The river is in silent ripples, propelled by the occasional boat that passes through. I am 21. I walk toward the city, but there isn’t enough time to go far, so I circle the bridges over and over, always within campus’s reach.

***

I am 17, and I am alone in Cambridge. I am walking along the river, enamored with what it must mean to be in college. It is July, so the water glistens under the sunlight. The rowers glide by, moving with a breeze under the blistering heat. I cross the Weeks Bridge, and I pause in the middle. The river echoes on endlessly, the backdrop to the old brick-red buildings that hold an invigorating promise. And I see myself. Intangibly, maybe. I see myself looking at this river a million more times.

A few months later, I am there again. From the riverbanks and bridges, the spectators cheer with a pulsating energy. It all drowns out as our blades swish through the water and the coxswain calls our times. We row through the Memorial Bridge, our legs burning. My eyes helplessly wander to the business school, then to the houses along the river that seem majestic, then to the boathouse. The blue bell tower still feels inspiring. My legs burn even more.

As a senior in high school, I gave a speech about adventure walks. It was my senior voice, the parting words I wanted to share with my school, symbolic of how I grew up. That was what I called them at the time. Walks of reflection and thought, walks to escape and imagine. Walks with no direction or purpose or time limit—an adventure of the surroundings around me. At home, I would walk along the sound’s coast. The water was grounding. But now the coast turned into the river, and the streets turned into paths. The water is, still, grounding.

***

I am 19, and it is April. I wake up early before class to walk, a rare birthday gift to myself. The sun has just risen, and few cars or people are around. It feels like I have the river all to myself, the pockets of the loops I do around the bridges. I am young, and I do not yet understand how it stretches and bends. I think I do. It is morning, so it is a breath of fresh air, and it is all just beginning. But still, the river is ethereal, the water whispering as it flows. I am content.

I do not know if I can call these walks by the same phrase anymore. I have let myself wander and wonder in both directions. At what point is it an adventure? At what point is it known?

***

I sit on a bench. I am 20, and college is halfway done. It is May, and the river watches my tears fall. I am not present, and my mind is vacant, and everything feels meaningless. The exams, the essays, the work before we go home. So all I can do is stare at the water, the current washing the river anew as it quietly caresses the banks. The water flows onward, moved by a current that it cannot control. I let it carry me too. For then, it was all I could manage. But the river washes anew; it freezes and thaws, and I did too.

On Sundays, a part of Memorial Drive is closed to cars. The street fills in other ways, with runners, strollers, and cyclists. They move onward with the river. On those days, I would run for miles. Farther than I ever thought I could, past the Boston University Bridge, to the path by Storrow, through the Mass Ave Bridge. Guided and distracted by the landmarks. There is nothing else to do but run, think, and follow the river.

Fall on the river feels like home. It reminds me of the Connecticut autumns I grew up with, the air as crisp as the water.

It is October again, and it is the afternoon, and I am still 20. I skip my class to go for a run, down to the Cambridge Parkway. I had never done that before, run there or that far. I pass by a handful of others. They casually stroll or train for the half marathon. Lately, I have noticed there is rarely an in-between. I want to keep running, but my shins hurt, and I am focused on this evening, so I tell myself tomorrow.

That night, I wear my brand-new green jacket. We have no direction as we walk along the bridge in the darkness. I had never done that before, in the dark. We talk about your weekend, my brothers, and where we want to go. Your shoulder faintly brushes mine. It feels like the familiarity of the river all over again.

***

Soon, the Charles will no longer be in my backyard. For now, it will listen; it will take my hand before I drop it. And the boats will beat on.

Meena Behringer ’27 (meenabehringer@college.harvard.edu) writes Arts for the “Harvard Independent.”