Buried in the Flow - ASKA ENOMOTO '28

I watched a man spend two days in the river. His body was thick with muscle, his skin browned and weathered by sun, his arms a canvas of tattoos that told stories no one asked him to explain. He stood waist-deep in the current, shoulders straining as he bent again and again to lift heavy stones. Each rock he pulled free left a swirl of clear water behind, a path smoothed for others. His hands were raw, his back slick with sweat, but he never stopped.

Around him, the children floated past in bright tubes—squealing, splashing, their laughter bouncing off the canyon walls. They were weightless, carried by the river, never noticing the man who bent the current to make their joy possible.

But one did. His daughter. She was small, six, maybe seven, with braids clinging to her cheeks, her bare feet pressed into the mud at the river’s edge. She didn’t laugh like the others. She watched. Her eyes followed every stone he lifted, every ripple he smoothed, as if she already understood the cost of his devotion.

By the end of the day, her voice broke through the rush of water—thin, urgent, almost trembling.

...

Dad, just stop.”

The river kept moving. He kept digging.

Daddy, the river’s fine.”

Still, his hands plunged into the current.

“Please, Dad… you don’t have to fix everything.”

Silence.

“Dad–”

Her words hung in the air, fragile but heavy. He paused, finally looking up at her, water dripping from his face.

He forced a smile.

And then, almost as if to convince himself, he said the words that lingered long after the river went quiet:

“Baby…

I’m

just

doing

this.

for–

Fun.”