Grief is a funny thing. There’s really no other way to describe it. You never quite feel “fine,” but there are moments when you do feel a little more whole. As if maybe, just for a second, you can forget about the emptiness. But then it hits you in the most unpredictable ways, while completing the most mundane tasks, reminding you that the world still turns. Your pain doesn’t matter to the sun, it will still rise, the seasons will still change, and life must go on.

The smell of spring in Colorado is possibly the best smell. I’ve often wondered what it would take to capture the scent of clean, rushing water and warm pine, bottle it up and keep it with me always. Take a whiff in the depths of winter to remind myself what’s right around the corner. That’s the first thing I notice when I climb out of the car for a fishing trip, that warm, comforting smell. I’ll stand there for a moment, taking it in as deeply as I can, to remember it for as long as possible. Grief is a little like that, too.

Unfortunately, it’s still wader season here. As I fought with the bulky, while also constricting necessity, I reminded myself that this was good. Getting out, falling back into a pattern of living, was good. Necessary. Runoff may be in full swing, but there are rivers to fish, and this would be my first trip of the year. And so, with rod in hand and a fluffy dog by my side, Jacob and I headed towards the river. As this was our first ‘real’ attempt to catch fish this year, the determination to make it worthwhile was real. I think that a lot of the time, we’re in it for the experience. We choose flies based off of biases, often opting for dry flies on the off chance that maybe, just maybe, the stars will align, and a fish will eat off the surface, even just for a second. But, yesterday was serious, determined business; none of that bamboo racket, instead we opted for graphite rods, split shot, nymphs, and even those damn bobbers. As I said, we were bound and determined. Here’s the thing about determination, it doesn’t work well without will, and will requires heart. Despite my lack of will, the universe decided that perhaps what I needed was a fish. A fish with so much life and beauty and fight that I would soak it all in and remember it for as long as possible.

I’ve learned most of my important life lessons on the bank of a river. I think most people who fish have. Hell, there are a thousand books and magazine articles on the subject. I’m pretty sure I’ve read most of them and written a few, too. After the incredible joy that follows a fish like that comes the inevitable contemplation. As I sat on the bank, watching the water and listening to the humming birds wiz by, I realized that I had (to paraphrase Pam Houston) ‘lived through the thing you thought you might not live through.’ So much of our lives is being gifted something, but only for a while. Sometimes it’s a mere moment, as is the case with fish, and other times it’s years. And so, you make a place in your heart to hold all of it, bottled up to remind yourself, in the darkest of moments of goodness and love.

As I watched that rainbow slip away, back to the comfort of an eddy, and I felt just a bit of sadness slip away with it. As I said, grief is a funny thing, but so is life.