A child's protector

It was the simplest of gestures. River still remembers the day vividly. Their father had just returned from a trip to Hawaii. His company was building a resort and he had been sent out to evaluate construction. Four year old River had begged and begged for their father to bring them with, but he said no. Instead, he promised to bring back souvenirs from the trip. He had delivered, bringing river back shirts, toys, and other little gifts. The one that stuck with River was a little wooden statue of a shark.

“Someone carved it by hand,” River’s father had said when he handed the little statue to them. “It’s a tiger shark.” River had held the shark in their tiny hands, tracing every line with their fingers. The statue became their good luck charm and their protector. Wherever River went, the shark went as well. River’s mother would put the statue on top of their bed frame at night, telling them that it would protect them.

When River was pulled out of class one day they reached into their backpack to make sure the statue was there. When they walked into the principal's office and saw their mother waiting, tears in her eyes, River grasped the statue tightly. When River’s mother told them that their father was in the hospital they held on so tight they thought the statue might break.

River put the statue next to her father’s bed in the hospital. The tubes and wires meant there was no way to place the statue closer. “It was a massive heart attack,” they heard the doctor say to their mother. “We don’t know if he’ll wake up.” River wanted to grab the statue and hold it close, but they couldn’t. Their father needed it more than they did.

It was late at night, but River wasn’t asleep. Their grandmother was downstairs and their mother was at the hospital. River couldn’t sleep without their protector. They heard the sound of tires on the driveway and the front door opening. Their mother stepped up the stairs and the door creaked open. River’s mother sat on the foot of their bed and slowly slipped the shark statue into their hands. River couldn’t stop the tears that spilled down before their mother said a word. River knew what had happened.

The shark statue stayed in River’s pocket throughout the funeral. They couldn’t bring themselves to hold it in their hands. It had failed to do the job it was meant to do. It had failed to keep their father safe.

When they got home River ran upstairs and shut the door. They ripped their coat off and pulled out the little shark statue, shoving it into a dresser door. River sat on the floor and sobbed. It’s hard when your childhood ends.

Five years later River is a sophomore in high school. Their learning to drive and starting to think about college. Their father’s death still hurts, but through therapy they have come to terms with it. The shark still sits in the dresser, untouched. River thinks about it often, before a presentation or when they first got behind the wheel of a car. They would remind themselves that the statue couldn’t protect their father, why would it protect them?

It isn’t until one particularly bad day that River finds themselves crying in their room and reaching for the dresser drawer. River misses their father, and maybe the statue couldn’t protect him, but it was still a gift that he gave them. Grabbing the statue they can’t help but begin to cry harder. Maybe it never stops hurting, when you lose a parent, maybe it’s about finding a way to live with that pain. River grasps the statue and wipes the tears from their eyes. Walking downstairs, they ask their mom if they can go to the cemetery.

It’s a 10 minute walk to the cemetery and a three minute walk to his grave. It’s nothing too flashy, a simple headstone with his name, the years he walked this planet, and the two jobs that meant the most to him. Sitting in front of the headstone River holds the shark statue in their hand and talks to their father.