I was letting things get to me and it looked like I was going to let things get to me for quite some time so I removed myself from those things.

I went to a place I hadn't been to since my dad had died, twelve years prior. I was sitting on the dock watching the river roll by. "Like a River Glorious" was my father's favorite hymn, he liked the paradox of a river being perfect yet growing deeper and fuller.

I liked watching the river because of its quiet power, there were no rapids, no loud rushing water, just a silent force only truly noticed from within the river itself.

We used to fish here, mostly just sitting alone in our thoughts, together, even if one us was had crossed the bridge to the other side. His goal was always to catch fish. My goal was just always to fish. I've never really enjoyed eating fish, most likely because I was witness to the whole once-living-now-lunch process. I've never seen a cow butchered, nonetheless have done it myself. I'm quite certain I would be a vegetarian if I ever had to butcher my own meat.

He would use natural bait. I would use lures. We kept all the fish.

I had never seen him use a lure but I had some of his old ones. I only ever guessed at their ability to catch fish because I would never risk losing them. Dad wouldn't have cared if I lost a lure but I knew there would be few items that would be left behind him, so I treasured the lures. I never told him why I didn't use them.

My dad built his legacy on hearts and souls, both are rather fleeting mediums in the whole scheme of things.

I was sitting there trying to see fish, guessing where I would toss a lure if I had a pole when some old guy shouted from the bridge.

"The river runs on the hopes of raindrops."

I didn't know how to respond, mostly because I didn't know what he was getting at and partly because I thought it was an odd thing to yell at a stranger. He then joined me on the dock.

"You look familiar. What's your name?"

I told him my name with the same attitude as if playing a trump card. I was certain I didn't know him. He was quiet after I played my winning hand. But my victory was short lived because of something he said as he was walking away.

"You look a little like John but more like Cy."

When I first heard him speak my father's name, I reasoned that a lot of people have fathers that are named John. I was safe, my anonymity was intact but that was all blown away when he dropped that second name.

My grandfather's name was Lyman but his friends called him Cy. He died three years before I was born.