Fragments

I found the first fragment tangled in some debris as I was walking beside the river. It had flooded recently, so the willows that lined the path were still draped with broken branches, reeds and other detritus left behind when the water receded. I gazed at the wreckage, contemplating how surreal it was to think that where I was walking had been completely underwater just a few days ago, and trying to forget my aching heart. That's when I saw it; a tiny piece of paper snagged on a twig.

Don't be afraid, you

The letters were typed in a classic font, probably Times New Roman, if I had to guess. They were small and tightly kerned, not like what you see in books these days. The crumpled paper, worn soft with age, had faded to a jaundiced beige. I turned the fragment over in my hand, inspecting the torn edges and wondering how the book it belonged to had met its demise. Probably destroyed in the flood, I rationalised, although I couldn't see any obvious signs of water damage. It looked more like someone had ripped it out from a collection of poetry, but that seemed like an awfully strange thing to do. Regardless of what happened, I felt a twinge of sadness, thinking of a book being ruined like that. Perhaps it meant something to someone once, but now it was just another casualty of time, decaying back into the earth and out of living memory. Grief began to tighten her fingers around my throat, a cold, strangling grip that left me gasping for air. A single tear leaked from my left eye. I dashed it away. How foolish I am, crying over a shred of paper, I chastised myself. But I knew that wasn't why I was hurting. 

I tipped my hand over, releasing the fragment. It clung to my palm for a moment before it fell, fluttering down to rest on the grassy verge of the trail. I walked forward a few paces, but I found myself choking back sobs. It seemed wrong to leave the remains behind. Callous, even. I hurried back and scooped up the tiny strip of paper, cupping it in my palms. I had the ridiculous urge to apologise for even thinking of leaving it behind. Instead, I pulled my journal from my coat pocket and tucked it in between the blank pages for safe keeping. "Best not leave litter lying around anyway," I reassured myself and resumed my walk along the river.

In the fog of organising his funeral and attending to important matters that no one ever warns you about, I forgot about the fragment. I only recalled finding it when I finally sought a moment alone, away from the consolatory company of well-meaning relatives and friends. I had set out for a short walk to clear my head, not intending to go far, but wandered back to that familiar path along the river. The murky brown water was high again, it had been raining up north, but hadn't spilled over the banks yet. Aside from the occasional puddle, the path was still passable. Probably not for long, though, I thought, judging by those rain clouds. 

I arrived at the log we used to sit on together, back when he was strong enough to walk here with me. He would watch the river in silence for a moment, then proceed to tell me about something wonderful, like what type of fungus was growing there or the geological origins of some unremarkable stone. Things that no one else would have ever thought twice about, he knew things like that. And when he wasn't telling me obscure facts about nature it was funny stories about life. He’d hold his hand over his mouth as he huffed with laughter, the way he always did. The way I do, too. At some stage, probably when I was in my early twenties, I began intentionally storing away little moments from my day-to-day life to tell him on these walks together. Like the time I discovered I’d accidentally been calling a colleague by the wrong name for over a month, or how on a recent trip abroad I wound up staying in the worst hotel in the city and woke to find rats scurrying over my suitcase. That time I found five baguettes discarded on a country laneway in the north of France. Things that shouldn't have been funny, and probably wouldn't be to anyone else. But we would both laugh anyway. Because we understood each other. 

Choking back tears, I pushed away the tide of memories and began to turn. As I did something caught my eye; a scrap of yellowy-white paper, resting on the weathered grey-green wood.

You're not alone, m

The rush of the wind seemed to grow quieter, holding its breath. I looked around, trying to see if someone was nearby. No one was. It was just me and the rushing river. A raindrop landed on my head. The storm would break soon. I held the scrap in both hands, reading the words again. You're not alone, m.

My first initial is ‘M’. The thought popped into my mind that someone had intentionally left it here for me to find, but I quickly dismissed that as folly. I turned the fragment over to find it blank, as the first had been.

I pulled my journal from my pocket with the intention to tuck it inside, but as I did the first fragment I had stored there slipped out from between the pages. Before I could grab it, it was caught in a gust of wind. "No!" I dashed after it, stricken with dread at the thought of losing it.

It whirled ahead of me, settling just long enough for me to approach it, but before I could catch in it my outstretched fingers around it would fly off again, somersaulting and twirling just out of reach. After a few futile attempts I lunged forward and caught the fragment mid-air. I did not, however, manage to catch myself. I tumbled down, landing on an overgrown patch of grass beside the path. I sat there, cradling the fragment to my chest as if it were a bird with a broken wing. A droplet of water landed on my lap, then another. I was crying. Dabbing away my tears with my sleeve, I stowed the fragment away in my journal, careful not to let either of them blow away this time and picked myself up off the ground.

I dusted the dirt off my pants, noting with dismay a few splotches of mud and streaky green stains. I will have to tell him about this, I thought to myself, a wry smile playing at the corners of my lips, what a lot of bother for a piece of rubbish!

Then it hit me again that he was gone. I wouldn’t be able to tell him anything ever again. The pain almost dropped me back to my knees in the damp grass. I sagged against a rough trunk of a willow to steady myself, then closed my eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. Something fluttered against my face, swept along by the invisible currents of wind. I reached up, expecting to find an insect or a piece of grass, but it was neither. It was another paper fragment with a line of prose printed on it, in that same familiar font.

and I will always be with you, so

I caught my breath, feeling something between fear and anguish and elation flood through me. This was grief, making me sentimental, wasn't it? It couldn't be anything else. Could it? With trembling hands, I turned the fragment over, not sure what I expected to see there. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared down at the words on the fragment nestled in my palm.

want to see you smiling again, th

My father's name was Thomas Halliday.