Thursday, August 09, 2012


"Come fishing," he'd say.
I would trot beside him
as he made his way
through deep meadow grasses
to the edge of the river.
He'd hold back the whiplash branches
like a gentleman.

Feigning interest in the muddy shore
or the sun-splashed water, I hid my tears
while the worm struggled,
imagining the hook in my own soft neck,
and when the careless fish, lured by something
improbably free, gasped in my father's hand,
I spied flowers far down the riverbank
and fled to pick them.

A bucket of worms to start,
a creel of fish to finish.
And a handful of black-eyed susans
for my mother, waiting at home,
who didn't like to see worms suffer either
and so gave me these hours with my father
as a gift.

"Home now," he'd say
and the day would coalesce in satisfaction,
fish, flowers, and father inextricably linked.


Brian Miller said...

smiles...a wonderful memory...i remember fishing with dad...i did not think much of the worms health then just happy to catch fish...took me a while to develop that empathy...smiles.

Tabor said...

I used to fish with my Dad but do not really remember much of it. I hate that, but it is what it is. Thanks for sharing your lovely memeory.

Pauline said...

Brian - I've never liked fishing but I did like being with my dad :)

Tabor - some memories are stronger than others. I'm getting to the point where old memories are easier to recall than what I did yesterday!

Molly said...

Sigh....lovely! I especially like ..."fled to pick them."

Judith said...

What a wonderful memory carved and engraved like a jewel ---