There is a world where he passes quietly, watched by the one who loves him the most.
And these two worlds collide, pulling in toward each other, rushing and rolling, combining until I can see everything, until I can feel everything. I feel the life of my father. I feel the love of my father. I feel the loss of my father, and it happens over and over and over again. There is the world that actually happened. There is the world that could have happened. I think this might be what Michael spoke of, and I cherish every moment of it even as my heart shatters again and again.
Every memory flashes before my eyes. Every single moment we did and did not share. All of these memories are pulled down to a single point, the tiniest possible space. There’s an instant where it’s black and silent, and then it explodes outward, arcing through this world and every other. Wave after wave of my past and future washes over me, and I see all possibilities. Every path not taken. Every shape. Every pattern. Every design.
And this. Out of everything, I beg you to see this:
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.
And for the first time since he died five years before, I crash into my father, and he wraps his arms around me, and oh my God, I am home. I am home. I am home.
We stay like this, for a time. My head on his shoulder as I tremble, arms tight
around his neck. He puts one arm around my back, the other pressing the back of my head with his big hand. I don’t even try to hide that I’ve broken down, sobbing into his shirt, clutching at him. He tries to whisper soothing things to me, but his voice keeps cracking, and I can feel my hair getting wet from where his cheek rests.
What strikes me first, aside from the fact that this is actually real, is the way he smells. If I’d tried to remember it even an hour ago, I wouldn’t have been able to. Not completely. But now? Now it’s everything I remember from my childhood. It’s wood smoke, it’s clean sweat, it’s grease, it’s wintergreen, it’s hard work. It’s all the things I remember about him all wrapped up into something that is distinctly Big Eddie. I shudder at the thought.
Finally, he speaks, and the sound of his voice is almost enough to set me off all over again. “Let me look at you,” he says roughly. “Just let me look at you.” He pushes me back, cupping my face, roaming his gaze over me as if to catalogue every little thing he can. His hands are shaking as he wipes my cheeks. He tries to smile, but it breaks and his face stutters again. He closes his eyes and takes in a sharp breath. He drops his hands to my shoulders, and his grip is biting. He opens his teary eyes again. “Benji,” he says, and I try to wrap my mind around the fact that I can hear my father say my name again. “Benji.”
I weep for my father.
Time passes, though I can’t say how much. I don’t know if it matters, or if I even
can find the heart to care. It’s deceptive, this place. The sun never seems to move from its position overhead, though I’m sure hours have gone by. The wind always blows sweetly, and the river babbles more like a brook than the Umpqua I know. The grass is the brightest green, the water the clearest blue. The trees seem to reach up to the sky, and the mountains are snowcapped, like they’re covered in clouds. It’s picturesque. It’s perfect. It’s not real.
What is real, though, is the weight of my father’s arm on my shoulders. We sit side by side, our pant legs rolled up, feet in the water. The water’s cold, but not so much it’s unbearable. The sun is warm, chasing away any chill. We haven’t really spoken yet, so