Watching Geese
By Kevin Ryan
Sweat drips onto the screen as I sit staring at this message from Stich. I’ve just finished a run and am sitting in my truck, sipping on a Gatorade.
My brother Pete just told me Chris Duffy passed away. He got an infection and his organs started shutting down.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my sleeve, then swipe over to my phone’s weather app to check the temperature… again.
I haven’t heard from Stich in a few months, but our history goes back decades.
We were born two days apart in the same hospital in St. Paul, Minnesota, and met after we were cast in our kindergarten’s production of The Wizard of Oz. We’d go on to play on the same hockey teams, suffer corporal discipline at the hands of our Catholic school nuns, bond over heavy metal, and drop acid together for the first time in high school.
Even after I moved away in the summer of ‘97, bound for California, we stayed close, calling each other at least once a month. He’d fill me in on all the things that were happening back home and I’d share my stories of travel and adventure. The last couple of years our relationship has existed primarily over text message, and that’s just how it is now.
I close the weather app, check my email, and then go back to the message. My fingers hover over the keypad waiting for the words to come. But they don’t.
The implicit rules of responding to the news of someone’s death rarely feel genuine. You need to “hold it together,” “stay strong,” “power through.” In other words, tip toe around the edges of being… sad. I could just follow the rules, but I don’t want to. Chris deserves more than that.
I turn the truck’s key over to accessory mode, roll down the windows, and let my breathing slow as the breeze from passing cars cools my face. The radio’s Bluetooth picks up my phone and blares the podcast I was listening to during my run.
I am enraged by the noise, how the suddenness of it startles me and pilfers my thoughts.
I’m sure I look like a nut tapping at the phone, telling it to “shut the fuck up” before letting out a gruntish roar. The kind that starts in your head as a rattle of frustration, rumbles to the back of your throat, and then escapes as a ridiculous, inhuman sound before you’re able to grab ahold of it.
Embarrassed, I look around to see if there are any witnesses to my outburst. I take a deep breath, trying to feel the air enter my lungs and spread through my body, like how they tell you to do in a yoga class.
Looking at Stich’s message again I feel pressure to act out a scene of empathy. Not that I don’t feel empathetic, but I’m not ready to express it. I’m not ready to share my feelings. But here I am, stuck with an obligation to respond.
That’s too bad, I type, and then watch the cursor blink while trying to call up a list of stock responses for “sad situations.” I add, Did he have a family? but then erase it all, toss my phone onto the passenger seat, and recline against the backrest.
I watch through the sunroof as a flock of Canadian geese soar overhead before skimming onto the lake in the middle of the park. Their honking, raucous at first, blurs into a lulling white noise and I settle into this bleary stare at the snow-capped mountains peeking up on the horizon.
I wonder if Chris had ever seen the mountains. He must have, but I don’t know. I don’t really know Chris; we didn’t hang out after middle school. But the few memories I have of him are so clear, they seem imprinted. His birthday falls on April 19th, right between Stitch and me, so it seemed like the three of us were always celebrating together when we were kids.
In fifth grade, Chris had a birthday party at his house. A bunch of us played baseball in the backyard, ate burgers and cake, but only Stich and I spent the night. We set up furniture forts in the basement and stayed up late watching ninja movies. Once we were sure Chris’s parents were asleep, we put on masks and snuck out of the house. We stalked the neighborhood like ninjas, diving under bushes, ducking behind parked cars, scaling fences, and swinging sticks like swords in battles with imaginary foes. (It’s hard to imagine how a group of kids could survive that type of stunt now.)
I’m not sure why that moment is such a standout of my childhood memories. Right now, it’s one of a few I still have of Chris.
I really just want to sit here, in my truck, and not think about any of this. Sink into that relaxing buzz of physical exhaustion. But thoughts of Chris push their way in.
I do the math and figure it’s been over 30 years since I last saw Chris. I breathe in and feel sadness in the rhythmic pulsing in my ears. My lip quivers and I cover my face to keep the emotions from going too far. The notion of permanence feels heavy. Not because Chris hasn’t been part of my adult life, but because he never will.
Exhaling, I think about how I won’t get the chance to run into him and ask what his life has been like. I won’t get to learn about his family or listen to him explain the unnecessary details of his job. And he won’t get to wait, patiently smiling, while I scroll through my phone to find pictures of my brothers or my dog to show him. We won’t get to share stories of trips we’ve taken or relationships we’ve had come and go.
I sit upright, snatch the phone off the passenger seat and send Stich a series of texts asking about Chris. I don’t pause to care that they are those stock questions you ask when someone dies. I want to know the things about Chris’s life that I didn’t get to ask him directly.
Stich answers a few, but I notice the time stretching between his responses. I let it go, knowing that, like me, he hadn’t stayed close with Chris either. As our conversation drifts from Chris, the lake is growing more crowded with geese, all announcing their arrival.
Stich and I settle into catching up. He sends me a picture of his family from a wedding he went to over the weekend. I tell him I got laid off, and about my upcoming trip to Ireland.
I want to tell him that learning about Chris makes me think about my own mortality. I want to tell Stich that I love him and that I miss being close. But I don’t.
I chug the rest of the Gatorade, reach down to loosen my shoes, and then slide my phone into my pocket. Opening the truck door, I ignore the warning dings that let me know I’ve left the keys in the ignition, and step around to the passenger side. Standing on the edge of the trail, I lean against the front fender and watch the geese, in their miniature armadas, paddle over reflections of the mountains as they jockey for supremacy of the lake.
I take another deep breath and feel the crushed gravel of the trail grind under my feet as I shift to retrieve the phone from my pocket. Flashing through the slideshow of memories I have with Stich, I find myself smiling.
I write: Still want to chat with you about that music story. Juggling a couple of projects now but hopefully soon.
Stich immediately responds, Sounds good.
Kevin Ryan is a writer and photographer based in Denver, Colorado. When not writing, he enjoys fishing, writing songs no one will ever hear, and traveling mostly near, but sometimes far. Explore more of Kevin’s work on his website.
