The Hard Drive

The Hard Drive | DISPATCH By Scott Evers

Funny thing.

Been looking for a folder all afternoon.

Thought I'd lost it.

...

Funny name for a folder.

Called it...

*God.*

...

Suppose if you're going to misplace one...

that's about right.

...

Never cared much for computers.

They'll remember ten thousand things...

and forget the one you're asking about.

...

Heading down to the river.

Birthday.

Been coming here long enough now...

truck could probably make the drive without me.

...

Started bringing the kids out here years ago.

Asked 'em the same handful of questions.

Every birthday.

Turned on the recorder.

Saw what happened.

...

Phone.

Hold on.

—

—Lauren.

—

—no, I remembered.

—

—got here a little early.

—

—I'm all right.

—

—you sound tired.

—

—well...

—don't work so hard.

—

—love you too.

...

She always knows where to find me.

...

No...

that's not really what happened.

Thought losing the folder was the story.

It isn't.

...

Truck's about there.

Hold on.

...

[gravel]

...

Mercy.

Flashlight.

Don't you embarrass me now.

...

There you are.

Knew you had one more walk in you.

...

Funny thing about rivers.

They sound older at night.

...

Hard to tell where the water ends.

Sky begins.

Kids were four when we started.

Didn't know enough to lie yet.

Didn't know enough to think there were right answers.

Didn't know enough to pretend they knew things they didn't.

...

Had a little recorder.

Set it on a flat rock every birthday.

Push the red button.

Ask a question.

...

Lasted about thirty seconds.

Somebody'd see a frog.

Somebody'd throw a rock.

Banana'd wander into the river.

Interview over.

...

"Come on back."

...

"One more question."

...

They always came back.

Usually dripping wet.

...

I'd ask...

"Is there something bigger and more powerful than us?"

One of 'em looked at the river.

"The ocean."

Another looked straight up.

"The sky."

One looked over at Banana...

who was busy shaking river water all over the recorder.

...

"Banana."

...

Seemed like a perfectly respectable answer.

...

Asked...

"Where do people go when they die?"

...

"Into the flowers."

...

"Into the sky."

...

Nobody argued.

...

Asked...

"Why are we here?"

...

"We're here to make things."

...

"We're here to be friends."

Then somebody noticed a turtle.

Whole conversation dissolved.

Off they went.

...

Funny thing.

Never had to bring the questions back.

Children carry 'em around.

Same way they carry sticks.

Pick 'em up.

Set 'em down.

Wander off.

Come back when they're ready.

...

Marvelous.

...

"What happens if we're bad?"

...

"We have to apologize."

...

"We feel funny."

...

Never did hear a better explanation.

...

"What do you think about after you close your eyes to sleep?"

...

"I remember things."

...

"I hope for better things."

...

Funny.

Funny thing.

Seems like everybody's looking for better answers these days.

...

Children always seemed content to live inside the questions.

...

Luke got older.

Came home one Palm Sunday.

Said...

"There's religion...

and there's the spirit."

...

Asked him how anybody could know the difference.

He said...

"It's up to God to decide.

Not us."

...

Been carrying that answer around longer than he probably has.

...

Lisa would've liked this night.

...

Truth is...

sometimes I still think she's around.

Hear something in the house.

Catch myself about to tell her something.

...

Widowers do that.

Everybody says so.

...

Maybe that's all it is.

...

Still...

I find myself hoping she's somewhere.

Not because I know.

Because...

I'd like it to be true.

...

Seems to me...

that's not so different from those children sitting by this river.

Wondering.

Not trying to prove anything.

They never stopped wondering.

Just long enough...

to go throw another rock.

...

Funny thing.

Thought I was afraid of losing those recordings.

...

Standing here...

realized I could still hear every one of 'em.

Not perfectly.

Not word for word.

Doesn't matter.

...

Maybe that's what remembering is.

Not keeping every sentence.

Keeping what became part of you.

...

Thought I was making recordings of my children.

...

Beginning to suspect...

they've been making one of me.

Flashlight's about done.

...

Doesn't matter.

I know the way back now.

...

[river]

...

...

...

[very quietly]

Still want to pour whiskey on that hard drive.

...

Irritates me more than it ought to.

...

Oh well.

...

Into the flowers, Rocky.

...

Literally.