The River

**** The River*** The river was low that summer, exposing long strips of smooth stone and mud along the bank. We sat with our bare feet dangling into the cold current while the water carried leaves and broken branches toward someplace neither of us would ever see. She was talking about the Mandolin and how much she loved playing and singing along. As I looked at her, I noticed how vibrant and full of life she was. She had these dimples that deepened every time she smiled, little works of art that pulled me in with a disarming charm. I kept forgetting what I was going to say. Of course I was exhausted, probably a little dehydrated. The night before I had been up all night drinking bourbon and exhaling smoke into the darkness. But the way she looked at me made me feel like I had been lit on fire. The sun was sinking behind the trees, turning the river copper and gold. She laughed at something I said, though it wasn't funny. She had a habit of finding value in people no matter who they were, even if they couldn't find it for themselves. That was her gift. And her curse. Because it was then that I glimpsed into her future with me. I saw her smile fade. I could see the dimples I loved watching recede, never to resurface. It would've taken some time to extinguish the glow that came off of her, but I would've worn her down. Slowly, over time, dread and worry would consume her every waking moment. Wondering why it had been days since I could sleep. Trying to figure out what had triggered my manic delusions. Calling doctors. Researching medications at three in the morning while I paced circles through the house convinced that I had finally unlocked some terrible secret hidden inside the universe. And she would cry sometimes. Not in front of me. Never in front of me. She would cry in the shower where she couldn't be heard. I could see all of it as clearly as the river in front of us. The late-night emergency rooms. The canceled plans. The apologies. The promises. The broken promises. The bail bundsmen and the 24 hour holds. I knew the shape of that future because I had watched it happen before. Not always with lovers. The people who cared about me always seemed to arrive carrying buckets of hope and leave carrying buckets of exhaustion. The worst part was that she would've stayed. Even after she should have left. That was the kind of person she was. She believed people could be saved. The river continued moving between us and the opposite shore. She reached down and splashed water toward me. "You're awfully quiet," she said. I smiled. "Just thinking." "About what?" I looked at her then. Really looked at her. At the life in her eyes. At the future she deserved. A future filled with ordinary worries instead of the strange storms that lived inside my skull. For a moment, I imagined being selfish. I imagined taking her hand. I imagined years of birthdays and road trips and lazy Sunday mornings. I imagined convincing myself that love could somehow overcome the damage I carried around like an old wound that never closed. But love wasn't magic. Love didn't cure anything. Sometimes love was simply choosing which suffering you were willing to hand another person. And I couldn't give this one to her. So I sat there and watched the river. I listened to her talk. I memorized her smile. And when the sun finally disappeared and the evening air turned cold, I made the hardest decision of my life. Not to keep her. To let her remain exactly what she was when I found her. Bright. Untouched. Still capable of believing the world was beautiful. I walk by the spot at the river where we sat that day on occasion. I remember her dimples. I remember the way the water moved around our feet. And I wonder if she ever knew that she broke my heart by being everything I wanted and everything I refused to destroy.