Page 30 of The River in Spring
I don’t contradict the man. I’m not about to start lying now.
9
Nobel
The sound of moving water over smooth stones reaches through the trees. It grows louder with each step closer.
“Watch yourself here,” I say, extending a hand.
Who am I kidding? I’d trip over the fallen sapling before she would. Wouldn’t be surprised if she leaped over it and did a pirouette. Instead, she goes along with the offer, and takes my hand.
“We’re almost there. Just down one more slope.”
Passing through the Ponderosa Pines and Sycamores, we head to the river. Before long it comes onto view. A few steps, slope to shore, and we are on flat land.
The last time I was here my ankle was screaming, I was leaning on a rifle crutch and my mind was on the mountain girl I had just risked life and limb to see. The scenery has changed. Were the leaves always this varied in color? Did the scent of the Pines smell so wonderful? It’s like that with Dove. My view of the world around and within has changed with her effect.
“Let’s go to the fishing hole. I think they would like a good view of the river.”
She adjusts her backpack, and the precious cargo it holds. As we walk, silence accompanies steps. I’m following her lead and respecting the solemn occasion. I never asked when the scattering of ashes would take place. Figured she would know when the time was right and let me know.
Last night in bed I saw her making a list and when I asked what for, she said, “I think I should take Grandpa and Grandma to the river tomorrow. I want to say something that honors them. Just making a few notes.”
My nod and kiss on her shoulder was agreement. Anything else would have been intrusive.
It only takes five minutes to reach the spot she has chosen for the final resting place. Light on the water sparkles like newly cut diamonds in the midday sun. The birds are singing an accompaniment, and a fat squirrel runs away between two rocks. There’s movement in the bushes. A rabbit appears and watches. Nature is gathering as witness.
“Here,” she says. “Let’s look for a spot.”
“Are you going to scatter on the incline, overlooking the river? Or on the shore?”
She thinks for a few moments before answering. Tears well in her beautiful brown eyes.
“Either way, they will become something new. Part of something else. Wind will blow them against the stones, or water will claim them as part of the river.”
As soon as the words leave her lips, she knows what to do. A look comes over her face as if she is a hundred percent certain.
“The edge of the river. That way they’ll be here forever and I will be able to be part of where they rest. Oh, Nobel.”
The last words soften and are lost on the breeze as she begins to cry. I take our backpacks off and hold her in my arms, kissing the top of her head.
“It’s all right babe. This is the perfect spot. Nothing is dead here.”
She looks up. “It’s so much better than a cemetery, right?”
“Listen to the songbirds. Your grandparents will be in good company.”
“Yes. This is the right place. Besides, Grandma always wished she could have seen this spot. Now she will. They used to fish together when she was younger.”
“You ready?”
“Yep.”
We take the two small urns from our backpacks. I hand mine to her.
“Want me to stay here?” I ask. “I can give you some privacy.”
With a shake of her head, she invites me into the intimate moment.
