The Source of the River Nile

I kept my fathers ashes in two ziplock bags on my bedroom dresser in Uganda for three long years. It was difficult to explain to visiting friends and lovers. “Just some special dirt from home,” I mostly lied. How could I explain that I had no idea what to do with all I had left of a loving, mysterious father? Finally, the ceremony idea came to me as I searched the sky for the double-round, fluffy clouds I always find on December 10^th, his birthday. I would scatter his ashes at the source of the great Nile River.

The boat guide and I sat silent on the half-sunken party boat until we reached the backside of a strange island covered in plants with all white leaves. “Doves eat a lot of fish,” he explained pointing up to a group of birds so thick they blacked out the sun as they passed overhead. “Bird Shit Island.” When I didn’t join his soft laughter, he looked at the ziplock bag squeezed nervously in my lap.  “You got to put him right in the bubbles—that’s the source—the spring. This spring gives the great river power to flow north for 4,000 miles. I put you in the exact spot.”

I unzipped the first bag just as a small audience of four sizable dragon lizards poked their heads out from the island. “Thank you father for inspiring me to see the world by sharing your stories. Thank you for that last summer playing in the waterfalls of North Carolina. Thank you for letting me bench press with you in the garage and build a turtle pond with you in the backyard even though I was a girl”. 

I emptied the second bag and watched until the grey dust disappeared completely into the cool, hungry torrent.  A massive double-round fluffy cloud floated above. I cupped the clear water with my hands and smiled.

“May you rest in peace. May you forever be the source and I be the Nile. Goodbye father.”