lattice raze forty years ago you saw a marriage counsellor and asked him why your relationship with the mother of your only child failed. he said six words that cracked the code: "she couldn't meet your emotional needs." today you spot him caring for a narrow water vessel on his front lawn. you park your car and walk to where he is. he looks almost the same as you remember. his red hair has gone grey. nothing else has changed. your name rings no bells. but as soon as you tell him what he told you, his eyes light up. the thing, you say, is that no one has ever met your emotional needs or even seemed to want to try. "the problem with most people," he says, "is they don't know what emotional comfort is. and then they go and get married. my wife and i have been married for fifty-five years. she's independent. she does her thing. i'm independent. i do my thing. but as far as providing each other with emotional comfort goes, we're like this." here he braids the fingers of both hands together and makes a lattice of his forelimbs. "she can read me. and i can read her. there has to be that in both of you. otherwise it isn't going to work." you open the book that is your life, tear out the pages, and let the wind whip the words where anyone might find them. this is what makes a river run — the knowledge that its current carries a confluence of stories still being sung. 251018 what's it to you? who go blather from