Fisherman

An old man sits in a creekside chair where his father sat for years. He looks down into the stream where his father fished, endlessly reading it. The blinding pages of sun-dazzling water have him in their spell. He must have read half a novel of that shimmer just that afternoon. It might as well be dancing golden fairies throwing their dust in his rheumy eyes. He’s hypnotized, smiling. On his lap is an open book. His fishing rod is propped up beside the chair, resting in a forked branch spiked into the earth, the way fishing folk do it out in the country. You notice the delicate fishing line extends not into the stream, but into the book that rests on his body. You watch the nylon filament twitching where it enters the book. Clearly, he has a bite on the line. But he doesn’t even notice this twitching. He’s lost in the book of water. The golden arabesques and strange alphabets fill his eyes, while the things swimming in the book feed on his bait. When it starts getting dark, he reels his line in and closes the book. He smiles when he remembers this is the same book his father could never finish either.