Voice From the Other Side

I sense a hand reaching out, palm up and open!

Whose voice is that
calling me, hauntingly,
from the other side
of the river?

Faint but familiar,
someone I know,
but can't remember.

Words muffled by the 
early morning mist
also amplified 
by the slick-flat surface
of the muddy river
with its muddy bottom
and steep muddy bank.

Muskingum River, near downtown Marietta, Ohio.

The slippery bank
we once used as a slide
into that slow cool water,
despite warnings of the danger,
just as dangerous, they said,
as a snake or piece of broken glass
in the high grass
in the field next to it.

Who's voice is it,
pleading and cajoling,
enticing me to join them
on the other side?

A child,
a young mother,
a lover,
an old man?

I sense a hand
reaching out,
palm up and open,
hoping someone's
will take it
and be guided 
through the mist
to the other side.

Then the voice fades
and the hand recedes,
was it a voice
or just a breeze
blowing leaves
down the slick-flat surface
of the street?