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The Old Men at the River I like watching the old men fishing. There is always at least one of them there every day. Expecting nothing. Casting. Waiting. Reeling. Have they ever caught fish here? I did see one belly-up in the water. Possibly a perch. "Used fish that size for bait back home," I tell my partner as she sits beside me, watching the water. The old man has company now. Chatting away, casting, waiting, reeling. I wonder what he did in his busier life, before he passed so many hours here... Does he have money? Family? Casting, waiting, reeling. Alone again. Looking around once in a while, looking for company. Conversation. The expression on his face is one of acceptance, with just a tinge of barely masked longing. What demons has he laid to rest in his many years? What heartaches has he known? What does he expect to find when his days of fishing have come to an end? I shiver, momentarily becoming him. Is this what lies in wait for me? Endless days of seeking companionship? No! I will not allow it! Though I do love to fish... Tomorrow I will go back to the river, I think as we drive away, and if the old man is there again, I want to talk to him. I want to tell him about fishing back home in Labrador. About the lakes so clear that you can look through thirty feet of water and see the bottom. Rivers so full of trout that you get tired of catching and releasing once you have caught your quota. And I hope that he will tell me about this river - before the pollution destroyed it's pulse. Before... when he didn't cast and wait, endlessly, fruitlessly. When he actually caught fish, and brought it home to eat. I hope he will tell me what this great stretch of river was like when it held life. What life was like before he had only casting and waiting and reeling to look forward to. As we speak of fishing and rivers and lakes, and crystal clear water... I want to tell him how homesick I have become.
 Maniacal Writings - by Barry Veinotte Get The Book! |