"Where the River Died" by Milan Kovačević

Where the River Died

by Milan Kovačević

Granddad always said he’d go on over the bridge when the time come. He didn’t care for talkin’ on death, or Heaven, or none of that such-and-such. Always just that – over the bridge. Was on account of the only bridge in the village – the one who crossed over a shallow little river that split the graveyard fields off from the houses. Weren’t no grand kind of bridge. Reckon there’s bigger ones and prettier ones out in the world, sure enough, but this one was ours.

Ain’t nobody knew who built it, nor when. All we ever knew was it was there, and crossin’ over it meant one thing only; either you was dead, or you was walkin’ somebody else – somebody that used to be alive – on to their long rest.

But me, I was always more took with the water runnin’ underneath.

Folks say every river’s got a dream of dyin’ in the sea, but this one was dyin’ right here. I ain’t rightly sure where it sprung from, but if Granddad’s old maps was tellin’ true, it run through near twenty places I never heard of, nursed people and cattle, brought the fields back to livin’ – only to come die mean and low right here. All slowed down, dried out, snared up in reeds and mudbanks.

Granddad said the river follows folks.

Said it never gives itself to them don’t deserve to live. Yeah. That’s just how he said it.

Truth be told, I don’t know what this village ever done to offend him none. Me, I always loved it here. Even when others packed up and left, I knowed I weren’t goin’ far.

Everything I ever needed was right here. And Ruthie was here too. She just never did see things the same way I seen ’em.

Then she went over.

It hurt me fierce, sure it did. Granddad seen it too, even if he had the good sense not to go speakin’ on it. He’d look at me sometimes like the Lord had told him somethin’ awful, and he aimed to keep it to himself. But even with all that, I weren’t fixin’ to leave. World ain’t no place for the likes of me. Ain’t nobody like her neither.

This here’s the last place I ever seen her. Been thirty years now, maybe more.

River look fouler than ever. Near about black. The railin’ on the bridge is all rusted through and ready to give. I look on over toward the graveyard and see old headstones pokin’ up out of the high grass. I knowed them people once.

Evenin’s comin’ down slow, and I’m standin’ there watchin’ the water. That one spot’s still different. Still wrong. Mud don’t forget what’s give over to it.

I toss in a pebble, and it just vanishes. Seems deeper’n the ocean still. Water all around it barely comes up to your knee, but right there it’s a greedy little whirl, always pullin’.

Reckon it’s time I stepped on in.

Don’t know why I put it off so long. Ever since she gone, everything done lost its meanin’. Just took me a long while to own up to it in my own self. Waters die when there ain’t nobody left to feed.

But that blackness in the shallows, it’s been callin’ for me day after day. I hear that sweet coaxin’ voice no matter how far off from the river I stand. I try to go to sleep, hum little songs, count sheep same as folks do.

Don’t do no good.

I see my face in that still water, all covered over with scum. Who’s this wore-out old man starin’ back at me, with that twisted, hateful face? Ain’t nobody left in the village now to tell me that’s still me. That green mirror might be lyin’ anyhow.

I ain’t standin’ on the bridge no more. I’m makin’ my way down.

Water’s lost whatever self it had. I can’t feel it on my skin. Like me and it’s the same warmth, same cold. It don’t fight me none, though I sure wish it’d hold me back just a little from that blackness down in them ageless depths.

But no – the water knows I gotta come to the hole.

I ease up to it slow and drop down on my knees. River don’t give life to them as ain’t meant to live. Might even take it back. Granddad’s words, you remember. Water’s up to my waist now while I stare down into that endless end.

“You come at last?” I hear her say.

I’m still too ashamed to answer her. Never was much good with words nohow. Wasn’t words failed me that day neither. Was what I done after. So I bury my face down in the muck. I wrap my arms round her bones, and she puts her hands about my neck and draws me on with her into eternity – right where I left her all them years ago.