The Sound the River Makes

When I was younger, I thought all rivers sounded the same — the rush and tumble you hear in movies, all noise and urgency, always moving toward somewhere else. But this one isn’t like that. This small, patient river that cuts through the edge of our town, doesn’t rush. It murmurs. It speaks in circles, finding the same stones again and again, repeating itself softly, like it has nowhere to be.

My father used to bring me there on Saturdays. He’d park the truck under the same cottonwood, take off his watch, and leave it on the dash.

“No clocks by the water,” he’d say. “It’s bad luck.” I believed him.

We’d fish for an hour, talk for maybe ten minutes of it. He’d chew sunflower seeds and spit the shells into the current, saying they’d come back as trees downstream somewhere.

The last time we came out here, the air already smelled like winter, clean and sharp, with that faint ache that makes you think of school starting and things ending. He looked tired, though he’d never have admitted it. The chemo had taken his hair and likely some of his pride. He told me he was fine, same as always. Fathers lie like that . . . cleanly, out of love.

After he died, I didn’t come back for years. It felt disloyal somehow, like visiting a house that had already been sold.

But lately, I’ve been driving past again on my way to work, slowing down each time without meaning to. The cottonwood’s still there. The bend in the road still dips the same way. Even the old rusted “No Swimming” sign still leans into the weeds.

But this morning, without really deciding to, I pulled over. The sky was that thin, washed-out blue you only see in early spring, still cold, but hinting it might remember warmth someday soon.

The river hadn’t changed, of course. It still moved with that quiet, steady insistence, carrying sticks and small pieces of whatever winter had left behind. I sat on the same bank and waited for something: a sound, a sign, maybe the ghost of a conversation. Nothing came, and still it felt like company anyway.

There’s a certain age, I think, where you start to understand your parents not as symbols but as people. People who were scared and hopeful and trying to make something last. My father’s life wasn’t big, but it was steady. He worked, he fixed things, he loved us in his quiet, sideways way. And somewhere along the line, I started wanting to be like that, even while telling myself I wouldn’t.

The river’s different in early morning. There’s a sound the water makes when it curls around the rocks - soft, almost shy. It reminds me of how he cleared his throat before saying anything important.

I sat there until the light shifted, until the wind started pushing the surface into ripples. That’s when I’d realized I wasn’t really here to remember him. I was here to remember me; the kid sitting cross-legged in the grass, asking too many questions, hoping his father had all the answers.

I thought about my own son then, how he’s almost the age I was the first time I came here. He’s restless, curious, forever wanting to take things apart to see how they work. I don’t have the patience my father had, but I’m learning, trying. Maybe that’s how this works: you spend half your life trying not to become your parents, and the other half hoping you get at least a little close.

A heron lifted off from the shallows, its wings brushing the air with that slow, deliberate grace that feels like forgiveness. The ripples spread outward until they reached my shoes.

The river kept right on talking to itself. I couldn’t understand the words, but the rhythm was familiar. It reminded me of breathing. Steady, constant, almost human.

Before leaving, I walked down to the water and dipped my hand in. It was colder than I expected. The current curled around my fingers, tugging gently, as if asking to take something with it. I let it.

When I stood, the wind caught the surface just right, and for a heartbeat, I saw the reflection of a man beside me. Not a ghost exactly. Just an echo. And for the first time, I didn’t feel the need to look away.

On the drive home, I caught myself humming, a low, tuneless sound that seemed to fit the road and the light and the slow, forgiving way the day was beginning. I don’t know what it meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

But later, when my son asked why my sleeves were wet, I told him, “I was just listening to the river.”

He nodded like he understood. Maybe one day he will.

I hope he will.

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