Fish
A precious catch.
There are many times when we are out and about when most kids are in school. Like late in August when there’s still good summer left, but all the children have been called back to the cinderblock walls and florescent lights and we are out fishing.
It feels like rebellion. But also the way it should be. Our work and schooling are seasonal, they ebb and flow, intensifying and relaxing in due course. To me, these moments feel more important than any academic pursuit.
Fish
Carefully he shows him
how to thread the hook,
winding once, twice,
around again
with once tiny fingers,
a thumb he used to suck. Both of
them once so little
they fit in the space between
my elbow and hand,
the size of a football,
a precious catch.
Standing now with rods
and reels, small men.
The catch: weeds, mucky
tangles hoisted in the
air and dripping. Then
they spot him. HUGE! They say,
huddled on the bank,
rain dripping down, dotting
their sweatshirts.
How big? I ask. He turns,
hands a width apart,
the distance between
my elbow and my hand,
the size of a football.
A precious catch.