Down Old Man River

a short story

Rivers don’t ask where to go - they just move, down and down, pulled by rain, by snow, winding through towns, and carving landscapes in the rocks. My Old Man River is the same, flowing down from Lake Itasca all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. This is the Mississippi River - and now this is my favorite place to be.

Last night I visited and sat upon the small rocky beach, sloping gravel and sand, and pulled out my book. I felt the October chill from my open window earlier this morning, so I brought along my treasured blanket, tired and torn, but warm and soft. Wrapping it tight around my shoulders, I flipped through the final pages of my book as the sun set over the river.

It left the sky mauve, casting up shades of purple and pink on its way down. I set aside my book to watch the colors dance, more magnificent than whatever I could read. Perhaps too magnificent, as before I knew it, the moon was massive in the sky, projecting its fullness onto the water and illuminating it indigo. I packed away my things, hearing the water ripple lightly from the wind.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a stone shining. So bright amongst the others that it seemed as if it were glowing. As if it were placed there just for me. I picked it up, studying its shape, the chip on its left, the scuff on its right. It was throwable enough. With a precise flick of my wrist, I sent it down the river, adding waves to the current. It skipped four times over the water before it sank to the bottom. My father had taught me to skip, though I never had it like him. I picked up another. As I went to toss it, hoping for five skips this time, my entire body tensed, and the rock fell from my palm.

From the middle of the river, a stone was skipping in my direction, seven times, eight, then nine, until it landed beside me. I picked it up hesitantly, surveying the river and across it through squinted eyes.

“Hey! Nice skip!” I called out, the wind carrying my words over the water. The opposite bank was dark and quiet, but not empty. I couldn’t have told you what I saw, only that something was there, and that I felt it.

Rising to my feet, I walked closer to the shore, scanning the water and banks again. “Anyone there?” I meant to yell, but half-whispered. I heard nothing back.

When I opened my palm to study the stone, I nearly lost my balance. This was my stone: with the chip on its left and scuff on the right. That which I just tossed, which was just throwable enough, that I watched sink to the river depth on the fourth skip.

I peered ahead. Rarely do I stay at the river this late. When the sun is gone, the water turns black as the sky, and you’re lucky to see just a few steps ahead. Tonight, I could see under the moonlight, and still I saw nothing.

Cold water hit the soles of my shoes as I stood as close to the river without getting in. I flexed my wrist, warming it up, and skipped my stone again. One, two, three, four....five!... and dead in the water. I watched it sink beneath the midnight ripples, certain this time it was lost to the depths. But I waited a beat - just in case. Nothing.

I grabbed my book, tossed my blanket over my shoulder, and turned away from the river to head home. That’s when I felt something lightly hit my ankle. There I saw it, shimmering as bright as ever, illuminating the dullness around it: my stone. I bent down to pick it up and felt its familiar shape in my palm, spotting the tiny chip on its left. But this time, there was no scuff on the right. I tossed it over and over, looking for that mark, and it was nowhere to be found. It had disappeared. It was there, had been twice, black and jagged, but now it was certainly gone. But I knew this was my stone - like the opposite side of the bank, I could feel it.

Staring out into the water, I called out again. Had I not been desperate for a response, the silence would have been beautiful; the water lapping on the shore, the gravel mixing beneath my feet. Still, no answer.

I prepared to toss it back into the river. This time, I warmed up my wrist twice, flexing it back and again, building a skip even a stranger would be proud of. I let it go on the third. My record was beaten as it hit its sixth skip, and just as before, I watched it sink, melting into the river.

And again, though sooner this time, it skipped its way back to me. The stone gleamed in my hand, and I felt its familiarity in my palm as I moved it around. The scuff was still gone, but this time, the chip was too. Right there on the left, where the ragged cut had been, the stone was now rounded, entirely whole. The stone was not just throwable now; it was impeccably throwable. It was perfect.

Straightening my posture, I rounded my shoulders and flexed my palms. This time I closed my eyes. The moonlight above cast a soft white on the back of my eyelids, setting the stage for the images I saw underneath them. My father’s strong wrist, the hair on his arm gold from the sun, his muscles releasing as he let go, his stone skipping gracefully over the water. Skipping so far, we lost count.

I swung my wrist back, just as he would, and released my stone into the river. I let my ears count for me. Six, seven!, eight - and then I could no longer hear it. But I knew it continued.

When I opened my eyes, the river was the calmest I’d ever seen it. And like the river, when I opened my eyes, I felt streams down my cheek. I stared ahead, grateful as ever, and whispered a soft thank you as I wiped my face with the back of my hand. And as if in response, glowing and perfect, I watched as my stone skipped over the river and back to me one more time.

On the stone, in ashy ink, was carved an image of a figure. They sat on a rocky coast, with a book in their hand and a blanket on their shoulders, beneath a full moon, while the river lapped at their feet. Across from me, the bank was just as quiet, just as dark.

I opened my book to my favorite page, leaving it on the gravel coast, and tucked the stone safely in my trouser pocket. I listened to the river flow down as I made my way back home.