Into This River I Drown

by T.J. Klune

For my father, John Edward Irwin May 27, 1955—June 27, 1987 For all the things I can remember. For all the things I have forgotten. For all the things I never got the chance to say. For all the things I'll say when I see you again. Every word that follows is for you.

once something is shattered, it can never be put back together in its original shape. Undoubtedly some pieces are lost or fit into incorrect places. The whole will never be as strong as it was once before.

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

was perfectly happy right where I was. The world is too big for someone like me. I worry about getting lost. At least here, in Roseland, I know where I am. People know who I am. It’s enough.

“Did you break the law?” “No, sir.” “Did you hurt someone?” “No, sir.” “Did you hurt yourself?” “No, sir.” “Then why are you shaking?” He blurred as my eyes burned. “Because I’m afraid you won’t look me in the eye anymore. That you won’t respect me.” Big Eddie leaned over, so that our faces were only inches from each other. He studied me and I let him. “I will always look you in the eye,” he finally said. “I’ve raised you to be honest and kind. I’ve raised you to be brave and strong. If you can become the man I think you’ll be, then you and me will always be eye to eye. You get me?”

“You are my son,” my father said, ignoring my fierce blush. “The only one God saw fit to give me. As long as you grow up to be a good man, the rest doesn’t matter. We clear?”

Time is a river, I’ve learned. Always moving forward. But for people like me, people who have loved and lost, the river is something we fight. We swim against the current, trying to get back to the way we once were, trying to hold onto anything to keep us from getting swept away.

It’s a deep navy blue that causes my bones to ache.

Do you believe in the impossible?” I thought for a moment. “I believe impossible things can happen, though we may not always get to see them.”

He’s going to act big, he’s going to talk big,

You humans are more connected to each other than you could ever realize. You may not see it, but I do. I see it every day.”

“Life is for the living. It’s time for you to live.”

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

yes. I don’t want anything more than you. I want nothing less than you.”

Grief is like that, Benji. It masks the anger until anger is all you know. Until you’re buried in it.

“Do you care for him?” she asks. It’s the second time in only a few days I’ve been asked this question and my answer is the same. I nod. “Then you know enough,” she says, sounding far wiser than I ever could. “If you care enough for someone, then you give them the time to know what they need to do for themselves.”

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

I will always look you in the eye. I’ve raised you to be honest and kind. I’ve raised you to be brave and strong. If you can become the man I think you’ll be, then you and me will always be eye to eye.

Everyone grieves differently. No one handles the loss of a loved one the same. Some put on a brave face for others, keeping everything internal. Others let it all out at once and shatter, only to pick up the pieces just as quickly as they came apart. Still others don’t grieve at all, implying they are incapable of emotion. Then there are the ones like me, where grief is a badge we wear, where it’s hard to let go because we don’t want to. We probably wouldn’t know how even if we wanted to. There’s unanswered questions, unresolved feelings. There is anger that this person could even conceive of leaving us behind. We are the furious ones, the ones that scream at the injustice and the pain. We are the ones who obsess and slowly lose rational thought, knowing it is happening but unable to find a way to care. We are the ones who drown.

knew love because I was loved. I was my father’s son.

My father would not have allowed another to wallow in anguish, to drown himself in a river. My father would not have allowed despair if he could have helped it. My father was the greatest man who ever lived, even with all his faults. He would know what to do. He would know what was in my heart.

That’s the thing about grief: the longer it festers, the harder it is to cleanse.

“It’s just strange to say it out loud,” he admits. “These are some strange days,”

Memories like knives. Memories like ghosts.

“I know what love is,” I snarl at him. “No,” he says. “You know only grief now. There is a difference, though I don’t expect you to understand what it is, at least not yet. You have all but buried yourself in it, so how could you? How can you love if you don’t even know yourself anymore?”

memories are like ghosts, that they will haunt you if you let them.

because you were his. 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.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when I was almost asleep. “For what?” I asked drowsily, because I’d already forgotten. “For making you mad.” “Oh. That’s okay.” He kissed my forehead. “Do you still want to run away?” I shrugged. “Well, if you do, can I go with you?” This surprised me. “Why?”

“Because I’d be sad if you were gone forever.” “Oh. Okay. You can come.” I paused, thinking. “What about Mom?” He sighed dramatically. “Oh, I forgot about her! Well, we just can’t leave her, can we. That wouldn’t be fair.” “Maybe we should just stay at the house,” I said wisely. “All our stuff is there already and it might just be easier.”

He carried me all the way home, and I knew it would all be okay because my father held me in his arms.

‘If the relationship of father to son could really be reduced to biology, the whole world would blaze with the glory of fathers and sons.’ It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

It’s better, Benji, to have something burn brightly for a short time than to never have it at all.

“Every day we’re apart, I’ll miss you until we’re together again.” “Because you’re my daddy?” “Because I’m your daddy,” he says faintly, smiling at the memory.

child. They won’t always come true. But if you pray hard enough, surely someone will listen, and that, my darling, is what prayer is all about.

The act of sacrifice is by its very nature a selfless act,

One cannot sacrifice unless one is doing not for himself, but for the greater good.