Maybe it’s a Sunday thing. Maybe it’s a grandfather thing.

Today’s post is based on Mom’s dad and his stories of the deceptive power of still water, and of the greater healing power of fishing.

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Fisher of Man

My grandfather (Mom’s side) became man as boy.

Changed states in less than three minutes of breathless life.

His dad who meant well threw son overboard to learn-swim.

In-river training.

The child four-limb flailed overhead over panicked depths.

Boy grabbed finger-scraped nail-split first thing not liquid.

Boat wide flat bottom was hard enough.

Flat bottom wider than thoughts.

Head knocked on boat wood answered by dry-side name screams.

Oars poked ribs but such the hard-head youngster fought away.

Underneath life boat boy flashed of angry sea creature.

Then back to just drowning boy.

Sister help-reached beneath beyond felt cloth and pulled up screaming.

She lost hope but brought up a saved shirt ripped.

She held up dripping and prayed him to reappear inside.

It was a size small. Dogs barked.

Finally well-meaning dad dropped oars and fought under-boat monster bare-handed.

River depths reached arm-deep sweeps until flesh and blood found.

Work-cramped fingers in wet red curls bedtime familiar.

Fish-hooked boy vice-gripped fished up a man.

You scared me boy. I should throw you back.

He spoke well-meaning love for his trophy son.

Somehow longer than at family riverbank breakfast.

And older.

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