Find Her There

Soliloquy by Nancey B. Price

Grandma told me I could find her at the river. She said I’d know when she was there and I wouldn’t for a second have to question her whereabouts when I arrived.

I just had to get there.

And there she’d be. 

But I couldn’t bring myself to go.

Not so soon after she left me. Not right away. I couldn’t bear the weight of her absence from yet another place. She was already gone from the front porch. Gone from her favorite side of the sofa. From the kitchen stove. The hallway. That hospital bed. It’s been damn near a year, and I still expect to see her in those places that she’d frequented so much in her last days.

But find her there at the river? The place she’d only taken me a handful of times growing up? It didn’t make sense to me—why she told me before she died to seek her there instead of some place like church or in the ground next to Granddaddy Joe. Yet, here I am a year later—descending this stony bluff toward a steady eastward flow. Eyes puffy. Forehead throbbing. Nose red and raw.

When I was little, Grandma would often stow me in the back seat of her Buick and together, we’d ride deep into the woods until we reached the water. Every time we’d bring a piece of fruit to toss to the current and wear loose-fitting clothes and sandals, even if it’s a tad chilly out. The river is the place to be aware of all your senses—seeing, hearing, and most importantly, feeling.

There, she’d say, you’ll always find what you seek. But I never found anything. Every time I went there with her, I just watched as she removed her shoes, lifted the hem of her dress, entered the water and looked down.

As we grew older, our pilgrimages grew fewer and farther between. In fact, by the time of her passing, I could barely remember what the river looked, smelled or felt like.

I take off my boots and socks and place them on the boulder next to the moss-covered oak. Grandma would’ve been so disappointed that I didn’t wear sandals like she taught me. Or that I did not at least bring an apple to gift the river. “Lookin’ lak I ain’ taucha nuthin’,” she’d say if she were still around.

With each step into the water, the cool sends a rush up my spine to the nape of my neck. Muddy sediment oozes between my toes. I stop when the water brushes my calves because Grandma says the ground disappears after that.

And then I breath and listen and wait. Just like we used to do all those years ago. She told me to find her here.

So where is she?

Wind tickles the tree limbs above as cicadas buzz in the bushes—heard but not seen. The sun has begun it’s descent in the west with its rays massaging the river’s surface—seen but not heard. 

A speedboat zooms by, sending wave after wave crashing into my shins. I remember what Grandma says: “Don’ botha’ movin’. Tha waves’ll pass.”

And with time, they do.

But not before leaving my legs soaked in their wake. The water returns to a steady stillness as I bend down to dry myself.

Wait a minute: Here she is!

With almond eyes gazing up at me through the ripples, my grandma’s face is directly beneath mine. It moves as I move; sniffs as I sniff; cries as I cry.

She told me I could find her at the river.

I just had to get here.