rugged, weathered wood of my childhood surrounds me
as i pull my oar through the thick reeds, days with my father come to mind

energy floods my ears as my head pounds with strangled recollections:

clutching the rod
shaking with might
reeling the catch
smiling with pride
unhooking the prey
being the predator
grasping the slippery beast
taking control

taking control. the ability to conquer vast depths of the lake meant success in my father's bright blue eyes. he was like the fish of the lake; catching him and his attention was titanic, but my persistence was unyielding.

tonight, under the milk of the moon, i am whole.

i sense the weight of the rod slipping past my sweaty hands. i let the pole drop to the floor of the boat. i dip my hand in the murky water below and collect silt from between the plants. i allow the sediment to roll through my fingers.

recumbent in the safety of my vessel, i am at ease. i run my fingers through my thinning hair, removing dead, stiff, lingering pieces, and i drop the pieces in the lake.