The Crossing

I stand at the river's edge, watching the water rush past. It’s been years since Afghanistan, and I'm still trying to cross to the other side.

The Colorado dawn paints the water copper and gold, not unlike those Afghan sunrises that would break over the Hindu Kush. Beauty in dangerous places…a lesson I've carried home.

"You planning to cross or just admire the view?" The voice startles me. I turn to find an old man, weathered like the mountains, fly fishing rod in hand.

"Just thinking," I say.

He nods like he understands. Maybe he does. His eyes have that look…the one that says he's seen things, carried things.

"Been coming to this spot for forty years," he says, not looking at me now but at the rushing water. "River changes every day. Never the same crossing twice."

I watch him wade in, purposeful but careful. His movements have a rhythm, a practiced dance with the current.

My phone buzzes. A text from a friend asks if we're still meeting for lunch.

"You military?" The old man calls over his shoulder, the line arcing gracefully over the water.

"Something like that," I answer, the familiar half-truth—analyst, not soldier. Always caught between worlds.

He nods again. "Thought so. Got that look about you."

I want to ask what it looks like, but I already know. It's in the way I positioned myself…back to the tree line, eyes scanning, feet ready. Old habits from when situational awareness meant survival.

"Vietnam," he offers without prompting. "River patrol. Spent two years watching water for signs of trouble."

I understand suddenly why he's so comfortable here and reads this rushing water like I used to read signals and patterns. We all bring our wars home in different ways.

"Afghanistan," I say.

The word feels strange in my mouth, like a stone I've held under my tongue for too long.

"Bad business," he says. No platitudes, no questions, no uncomfortable gratitude. Just acknowledgment.

"Lost some good people there," I find myself saying.

"You carry them with you?" he asks, casting his line again.

I think of Mac, of Jimmy and others. The ravens inked across my back, carrying memory in their beaks.

"Every day."

"That's good," he says. "That's right."

My phone buzzes again. Another friend is checking in. A reminder that I've built connections in the years since coming home.

"Got people waiting on you?" the old man asks, noticing my glance at the phone.

"Yes," I say with certainty. "Yes, I do."

He reels in, empty hook glinting in the morning light. "That helps. Having people on the other side of the river, waiting for you."

I look at him curiously. "Did it take you long? To cross?"

He chuckles, a sound like stones tumbling in water. "Son, I'm still crossing. Every day, I wade a little deeper. Some days, the current pushes me back. Some days I make progress."

He points with his rod to a fallen tree that spans part of the river. "It used to be that you could walk across it. Nature's bridge. Then came the big flood of '87. Washed half of it away. Had to find a new way to cross after that."

I understand the metaphor. My crossing has been like that…paths washed away, new routes discovered, alternate passages when old ways failed.

"Your people," he says, "the ones you lost. They're not anchors, you know. They're guideposts. The difference is that one holds you in place. The other helps you find your way."

The simplicity of his wisdom catches me off guard. I've spent years in therapy trying to articulate what he just said in two sentences.

"I should get going," I say, checking the time. "Meeting friends for lunch."

He nods, already turning back to the river, to his patient dance with the current. "Good fishing today. Water's clear. You can see right to the bottom in some spots."

As I turned to leave, he called after me: "Hey. When you're ready—really ready—the crossing isn't as hard as it looks. Current's strong, but the river's not as wide as it seems from the shore."

I lift my hand in acknowledgment, thanks, and recognition of one traveler to another.

Driving to meet my friends, I think about rivers and crossings, guideposts and anchors, Mac stepping between me and an explosion, Jimmy's dreams scattered across Afghan soil, and bourbon poured for ghosts who never drink it.

The mountains rise in my rearview mirror, and the Colorado peaks are so different from those that haunted my dreams for years. Ahead, the road winds down toward town, toward lunch with people who've become important to me through the slow, patient work of building a life after war.

I'm not across yet.

Maybe I never will be.

But I'm wading deeper every day and not crossing alone. I carry my ghosts not as burdens now but as companions. And on the far shore, the living wait with patience and love.

The river is still vast.

But I'm crossing it one step at a time.

Till Valhalla, brothers.

But not today.

I'm still wading through this current, still finding my way home.