This is obviously not the picture that inspired the poem, but close enough, right? |
A swing
of the arm,
The
flick of a wrist.
The
hushed “whoosh” of the rod,
As it
cuts through the air.
I'm
getting better at this.
Slowly
but surely, I'm learning.
I
haven't caught anything yet,
So I
wait patiently as he always did.
The
waves are crashing against the shore,
Along
the rocky pedestal on which I stand.
My feet
are wet, my hands tired.
I'm
getting weary of waiting.
The
moment I give up,
The
second I start reeling in,
Something
tugs violently at the end
Of my
line, something hidden.
Whip
the rod upwards,
Just
like he taught me;
Secure
the hook, he'd say.
And I
start a battle of tug-o-war.
This is
when it gets exciting,
Playing
tug-o-war with an invisible force,
Not
knowing what's on the other end.
It's
what he loved about it.
Finally,
I see something.
A flash
of a golden fin.
A smile
tugs at my lips;
I did
it.
Why he
always loved to fish
Remains
a mystery to me.
My dad
never taught me,
I never
taught my son.
He
loved it so much.
And so
here I am,
Catching
my first fish at 62,
Just
the way he taught me.
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