Thursday, August 09, 2012

Gifts



"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.

5 comments:

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 ---