Fishing with Flowers

a poem

Fishing with Flowers

Have you ever noticed how
the grief of all the years rises
up in your throat when you
sit beside a body of water?

My girl and I are fishing with
no hooks. She is three, and we
twist yellow flowers around
driftwood, then she plunges
her branch into the muddy
river. “They must not eat
flowers, Mom,” she sighs.
“I guess not. But we can try
something else,” I assure her.

I am not so much homesick
for the lake I grew up beside
or the manzanita trees that
twist like modern art, but
for relief from expectations -
my own - and those of every
one around me. Which is to
say, I am homesick for a place
I’ve never been.

My daughter discards her
homemade pole and begins
digging in the sand again.
We love it; the way it is both
smooth and rough, and how
it can be built up or sifted
like dust through our fingers.

It’s possible I never fully
grieved the lives I lived before
this one. And while I wouldn’t
go back, I don’t know what to
do with the memories or the
parts of me, seemingly attached
to them; now ghosts, dust, sand.

My woodland sprite of a child
will interrupt these ruminations,
but for a moment, I think about
things tucked away in boxes,
never to be reopened, and I add
my angsty voice to the choir as
I sit beside this muddy river filled
with catfish and empty soda cans.

We will begin again and again
in this life, and it takes periodic
lament to survive. The bugs are
buzzing, the birds are protecting
their nests, and I must wash my
face now, abandon the sackcloth,
and help my baby gather her rocks
and shells, so that we can head
home before the sun goes down.