I remember the blue of it first—the kind of blue that lives inside stone. A mother shaped from that rock held a child made of quiet light, and the river breathed around us like something alive.

In the dream, I didn’t speak much. The water did. It rose and fell in long, patient waves that seemed to know the rhythm of my own pulse. Each swell carried a name I used to know—some belonging to people I miss, some belonging to parts of myself I had buried to survive. The river spoke them softly, never accusing, never demanding—just remembering.

I reached down and touched the current, and it answered with warmth. The water shimmered with tiny fragments of light, like the breath of ancestors rising through time. I realized that no word ever truly disappears; it only sinks until someone listens again. “Nothing is lost,” the current told me. “Some truths simply wait under the surface.”

I watched as the mother of the river—her eyes wide with both sorrow and grace—lifted her hands. Between her palms, the water gathered into a sphere of blue fire. She pressed it gently into my chest. I felt it spreading outward—slowly, tenderly—filling every hollow place that had forgotten how to feel. Healing is not a straight path; it bends, circles, and widens until even the broken pieces learn how to sing again.

When I woke, my body was still humming. My breath carried that same river rhythm—steady and forgiving. The day moved through me as if the air itself had learned compassion. Sometimes, when the wind crosses water, I still hear her voice—low and endless—reminding me to stay soft, to stay open, to stay flowing.

This painting came as a remembrance of the Mother who carries both birth and memory. Every wave, every breath, every silence of water is a name returning home. Through her, we remember that what flows away was never truly gone—it only changed its song.