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Back Home After September

I stop on the bridge, look down onto the first webs of ice skims, reaching out from jutting bank rocks, tendrils of hair on the water, hanging on by God knows what. There are voices long past living that call from the sun slants that I am safe, that the water and its hold of rushing trout are unchanged, still worthy of time spent stopped on a bridge. They are whispering, Come home and I am embarrassed by the tears that come hard and unrelenting, by the woman who stops her car alongside mine, asks if I need help. I am desperate not to find dependence again on people like this who come unafraid to the side