He was a fisherman. I didn't fish with him often though now I wish I did, but when I did, when we did go out together, I remember him sitting on the center bench of the green wooden boat. He sat there, glasses slipped to the tip of his nose, hunched over, fierce with focus. He was tying a fly. His own fly. The air was damp with life, with possibility. And he mumbled something Dad-like.
He wanted the wild ones. Wild fish that hadn't been farmed, and stocked. Ones that were maybe smaller, scrappier, not as plump, not as perfect.
This wasn't just about fishing, about fish.
Even as a girl, I knew this.
I sit here. In my little coffee shop, in my little pond, swimming in words, wild with memory, with clarity, with loss, with love.
I am not perfect. I am not prefabricated.
I am wild. My flesh pink. My thoughts gray.
He would want me to be wild.
And I am.
I just wish he were here to see.
These words were inspired by the one-word prompt over at Trifecta Writing Challenge. I'm not sure how I stumbled on this site, but I'm thrilled I did. If you are looking to spark your own creativity, or simply to find thoughtful words in the vast blogging ether, it seems this is a good place to go.
I was talking to a friend who recently lost his own father and I said to him something that has proven to be true. I told him he will most likely miss his dad at unpredictable times. That the heralded anniversaries and holidays won't necessarily be the hardest moments. That there will be moments that sneak up and settle, moments when a memory slices through, or a thought alights. Sitting in this coffee shop and pondering wildness - this was one moment for me, and it was one that was both tricky and beautiful. Both. It's often both, I am learning.
Are you wild? Do you aspire to be? When do you most miss those you have lost?