It’s easy walking backward up a river,
he said. Stay close to the bank.
If you fall, fall backwards
and point your feet downstream.
It’s better to break your legs
than your head, and try not to lose
any of the fishing gear.
Only let go if you absolutely have to.
Better not to fall at all, I thought.
But I was not the father.
And I was not the son
I was supposed to be.
Looking downstream once a year
but only because I had to,
not because I wanted to.
Wanting the visit to be over.
Not wanting to walk the river
backwards or forwards,
upstream or down.
Knowing I’d never do so
on my own, if only to show him,
as if he didn’t already know,
what I could do without him,
to show him everything
I had already let go of
the other fifty-one weeks of the year.
Finding it easier and easier
to let go of what I never had.
