fishing

Papa Dave and Boo Fishin'_crop_01                                    he was, in a word…”imperfect”.

he used to call me “difficult” …but i never meant to be.

he was the first person that i knew without a doubt, was absolutely crazy about me…smitten with me despite my flaws.  he saw “me”.

he made me laugh….not only because he was funny, but because he saw life as a  humorous and often absurd adventure.  irony was never wasted on him.

he made mistakes.  plenty of them.  so i learned that love needs to be resilient and generous.  he could never come to terms with life’s little inconsistencies and inconveniences so the bitter and sweet where held in constant tension.

he carried beauty in his soul.  he was haunted by it’s lure and elusiveness…always looking to satisfy the longing that could not be filled.

he was a poet in every sense of the word.  capturing poignant moments with lens and pen.  always pursuing the deeper meaning  and noticing the small and broken down things.  nostalgia coursed through his veins.

he was afraid of failure as men often are…but he was more afraid of missing life in the moment and hopelessly curious at all it’s mysteries and complexities.  my words are an ode to his imprint on my soul .

fishing was his religion.  patiently waiting for the evening hatch .   waiting for the waters to glass over with calm ,warm light … to cast his fly in search of wild trout.  he was lost and found in every sense in the rivers’ beguiling waters.  following many a setting sun …until weariness set in.  but that is often the price of those stricken with idealism .  hoping in possibilities …like waiting for the fish to rise , can take it’s toll on a heart .  until the final toll of losing.

for daddy…who taught me to never stop learning. to live honestly. to never settle for a life without risk and adventure. to ask questions. to be brave and to cry when i need to. to understand rivers…and know where to find the fish.

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