Saturday as I sat on the banks of the river and watched my two youngest fish with my dad, a million posts ran through my head. I remembered the days on the same banks with my dad and grandfather and I was overwhelmed at the site of them following in my footsteps.
As I fished with my grandfather’s pole – the one left to me when he died – I knew there were four generations on the river instead of three. He was somewhere with us in spirit. Dad and I both knew it.
He was there as I gazed into the small waves flowing over the rocks and as my girls filled their pockets with pretty river rocks and marveled at the trees fallen and stripped of their bark by beavers.
He was in the sounds of the hawk and the rippling currents. Everywhere I looked he was there.
As I watched the osprey circle the river in search of the same fish which were eluding us, I created more posts about the beauty around me. Then the wind came and distracted me and the words faded as quickly as they came.
The posts spilled out of my mind and floated away in the spring run off. Disappearing downstream with the melting snow instead of onto my laptop for you to read. So today I have nothing left for you.
For me, I have the message that I need to take more time like Saturday. That I need to appreciate this gorgeous place where I grew up and where we chose to raise our children. I need to give them more days fishing and hiking among wildflowers.
I need to give them the memories so that when they’re on the river they will know that if I’m not standing next to them, I am still there.
I will be the circling osprey and the wind in the cottonwood trees. That tiny piece of petrified wood on the edge of the water that right now seems like such a treasure. The elusive frog that refuses to be caught.
I will speak to them through babbling brooks and gusts of wind.
I will be the voice in the back of their minds saying, “this is good, this is what gives me strength to face the rest”.