SUMIDA RIVER

Japan’s Sumida River is old, older than the city of Tokyo that folds itself around its banks. In the early morning, it moves slow and silver beneath the bridges, carrying the memory of centuries…boats and blossoms, lanterns and rain. I run along the path that traces its edge, my feet finding a rhythm that matches the hush of the water, the distant hum of trains, the soft shuffle of city life waking up.

Tokyo is a city that rarely pauses, but here, by the river, time loosens its grip. The air is clean, touched by the faintest scent of grass and stone. Mothers walk with daughters, hands linked, their steps unhurried. A girl in a yellow jacket kicks a rock ahead of her, chasing it with a burst of laughter, then circles back to her mother’s side. She does this again and again, a tide running out and returning, out and returning, as if the river itself has taught her how to move.

I slow my pace to watch. The girl’s hair swings behind her in a black ribbon. Each time she runs after the rock, she glances back, making sure her mother is still there. The mother waits, patient, smiling, her hand open and ready. When the girl returns, she slips her fingers into her mother’s palm, and for a moment they are perfectly in step, two shadows joined and then separated again.

There are others on the path…an old man with a fishing pole, a pair of students in matching uniforms, a woman in a wide-brimmed hat walking a small dog that sniffs at every patch of grass. The city rises behind them, glass and steel, but here by the river, everything is softer, blurred at the edges. The bridges arch overhead, each one a different shape, a different shade of blue or green. I pass under them, listening to the echo of my footsteps, the low murmur of voices, the splash of a heron lifting off from the bank.

I think about how the river holds the city together, how it gives people a place to walk and breathe and remember themselves. The Sumida is an institution, but it is also a comfort…a place where ordinary days unfold, where mothers and daughters play their quiet games, where a jogger can become, for a moment, just another part of the slow, ancient current.

As I finish my run, I look back and see the girl kick her rock one last time. She lets it roll to the water’s edge, then turns and takes her mother’s hand for good. They walk on, disappearing into the crowd, leaving only the ripple of their passing and the steady, patient river, moving on as it always has.