Into This River I Drown

by T.J. Klune

The measure of a man, she said finally, is not the words that mark his end, but everything he’s done since his beginning.

There is strength, you think. Hiding somewhere under all that sadness. And expectation. Like I’m waiting for something. Something to finally happen. Something to come along and say you are still alive, you are still whole. There is no reason for you to be alone because I am here with you.

But pain is selfish. Grief is selfish. It demands attention, and the more you focus on it, the more it wants from you.

But that’s the funny thing about grief and anger combined; even while buried in newfound happiness, it claws and it whispers. It begs. It howls. It screams. It doesn’t let go. And it demands retribution.

“Sometimes it’s the promises we don’t say that are the ones that are the loudest.”

It’s easier to ignore what’s in your heart if you pretend it won’t hurt you in the end.

“He told me memories are like ghosts, that they will haunt you if you let them.

So you grieve. You grieve and let the poison out, and you remember him. But you cannot forget that memories are like ghosts, and they will drown you if you let them.

My father sings: “Sometimes I float along the river—” I sing: “For to its surface I am bound.” My father sings: “And there are times stones done fill my pockets, oh Lord—” I sing: “And it’s into this river I drown.”

It tastes like sorrow and skin. Anger and bones. It tastes like everything I’ve ever wanted to say to those who are gone.

This is the world where the river runs wild. This is the world where I leap the last five feet, unable to take the distance between us any longer. I hear the beat of massive wings, I hear the earth singing, I hear all the planes of existence holding their breaths for just one sweet, freeing moment. It is in this moment that I break through the surface of the river and come out on the other side.

There is hope. There is faith. There is belief that maybe, just maybe, everything will be as it was and as it should be. It’s a thread that wraps itself around my heart and soul and tugs on them gently. It calls for one who can be strong. And brave. It calls for one who can stand true.

How do you say what’s in your heart if your heart is something you haven’t known for years? How do you give yourself completely when all you’ve done is bury yourself in grief? How do you come back from the dark when it’s all you can remember?