"The fisher and the fish" by callie atta

The fisher and the fish. 2007.

Then it let go. 

With a pop and hissing, the fishing line ran through my fingers so fast that I had not realized I lost the fish. Here we go. Another sign. I was always searching for hemlock, for word posts, signposts. 

None met my childhood dreams. And yet there I was, at 19, running my finger tips along the backs of shelves in my grandfather’s fishing hut. Looking for floats, weights, an old tie? He sent me in for some heavier line, and I thumbed through the boxes and piles. Old hooks, jigs, orange for dawn, red for dusk.

It was the quiet water that drew me out to the docks. It was that quiet moment, between life and the next day. 

When it was silent and grey and nothing mattered. There were no worries or plans.

What is it about objects we can touch that make us feel sure? What difference does it make to hold something? Thinking about it makes it just as real as it’s ever going to be. And yet.

It doesn't quite.

Fishing from the pier, as I often do, has taught me to hang on and to let go. 

It is not the map that locates us – it is the fawning over accomplishment, wishing to be all that we are, but only sometimes. It’s like feeling sheepish when there is not even a reason to feel that way. If I could bridle my emotions like horses, make the local news personal, I could leave a few things packed in time’s trunk. I could make them personal.

To be in two places at once, the fisher and the fish. I could move through the water, a foot from the bottom, where time loses some meaning. 

No seconds no ticking. Heaven. 

We are the fisher and the fish. Our dreams coming from our blue depths, the places we haven’t shown anyone.

To be quiet, and say good-bye with a little dignity, was what took place. I still wanted to shout as loud as I could, don’t go. But the urgency and sting that greets us those first few days, eases a little. Growing into a unworried friend, we walk with our minds on things that are a little further beyond.

Worry. Damn attendant that I apparently enjoy since I seek it out. Like a tilted clay pot I would like to make it and place it on my shelf. 

And yet worry is a different artifact. It is not beautiful, it does not really show care, and it is impersonal. At the end of time, when we read our books and tally the score of how nice we were – worry does not even tell others we cared about something. There is no nurturing because of worry. It is a closed lump in the throat. In my experience anyway.