Beside a river, my son and I dived (after a witch who changed
into a fish) to escape the meanderings we shared as we sat beside
the flowing water and tried to connect — but my son’s words are not
my words, not framed in my picture of history. The witch,
bloated as she was with understanding, did not wish to let
us understand each other. She fled the scene of that catatonic afternoon
when we stopped by the river’s bank, cast words with fishing lines
and found the snags and tangles too much: The words did not bite
so we two took up the chase instead for that shimmer of salmon gold,
went after the tail, fin and the legend that a salmon caught would
make the two of us wise enough be back again at that moment when
my son’s eyes looked up at me when I smiled, his smell still bright
as sunshine and my hand had only ever caressed him for I had
not snapped nor had we shared the least moment of difficulty.
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