I spend a lot of time thinking about rivers.
Cascading tributaries splitting through the bedrock of the north shore awake in me a sense of timelessness. Spawning fish hurling their lithe bodies over rock ledges inspire in me a sense of purpose and motive. Every river bend, eddy and seam of current communicates to me its own earthly message.
But when I think of the St. Louis River I think of my friend, Ryan. I think of the many nights we spent fishing under the Oliver train bridge. I think of the smile on his face as he held a walleye up for my camera. I think of the trophy sturgeon he hooked that towed our canoe from riverbank to riverbank. I think of the heaviness of our laughter and easiness of our joy.
But more than anything, I think of how fragile and fleeting life can be.
Ryan completed suicide in July of 2015. I wish I could elaborate more on that fact, but there are a lot of blank spaces in the narrative that will forever remain empty because Ryan isn’t here to fill them in.
How did he do it? I would ask myself. And why?
One of the many struggles we face when we lose someone to suicide is the urge to fill in those blanks, to make sense of such a tragic event. But we can’t, can we?
I’m a documentary filmmaker in Minnesota. The summer Ryan took his life I was wrapping up a video series about mental illness stigma. After interviewing a number of people affected by mental illness, I thought I had a better grasp on the issue and a greater ability to recognize someone who is struggling.
And then, on a mundane afternoon in July, I was scrolling through my Facebook feed when I saw Ryan’s cousin announce that Ryan had completed suicide. And just like that, my heart fell deep within my chest as I realized that even after producing a documentary about mental illness, I was completely blind to how close it was to me.
Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t he tell me he had depression?
The answers to those questions will always remain blank spaces. Curling over a campfire like a blue ribbon of smoke fading into darkness; Shimmering like the roll of a rainbow trout before darting into obscurity, to that deep pocket of black water. Those blank spaces are haunting.
So instead, I think about the St. Louis River.
I think about geese winging their way South, honking overhead as Ryan slipped on his new fingerless fishing gloves that kept him warm on crisp autumn nights. I think of the warm sun descending behind the hill, and the vibrant colors reflected on the water like a painting. I think of all the quietness and peace in those moments. The simplicity.
Slowly, and perhaps just as softly as Ryan ascended to heavens, those memoires began to occupy the blank spaces.