There was a full moon and high tide, a sea of glittering little waves strutting towards the Gulf, only to be swallowed by bigger waves. A shaky silver reflection of the moon brightened the dark river, broken
every now and then by a man’s dark shadow in the middle of a little
canoe sliding to an unknown destination, like a sea bird, singing a popular song in the sweet local dialect, “I would ask if I could reach the heavens, why you bless some with all the luxuries and a loaf of bread tainted with blood for others?”
And then from as far away as one could see, deep in the dark, beyond all the old tall palm trees touching the clouds, kissing the moon, a muffled voice chanted, hard to hear, fading from-time-to-time, interrupted by the oars gently cutting through the river’s warm water and a cool breeze going from cheek to cheek chanted:
“Why do you come to my dream every night if you don’t love me?”
The river was silent, the night empty, the voices heavenly.
Ralph Salimpour, MD, DCH, FAAP, an inductee of the Congressional Record of the United States, is as much a professor of medicine as he is a student of the human condition. He wields the written craft to enrapture the mind much like an artist wields a brush. The pages are a blank canvas on which to draw from a talent heralded by many and matched only by an imagination that rises to the task. SILENT RIVER, EMPTY NIGHT is the first in a series of recent pursuits, with work progressing quickly on the follow-up.