Learning to Fish with my Mother

My mother stood at the ocean's edge —

an oversize tee shirt knotted at the waist.

Her rod and reel rested on her hip.

Such elegance in her stance — her tanned Rockette-

shaped legs, yet the scarf that tied up her auburn hair

had an I-Love-Lucy goofiness. She was a vision of contradictions.

She taught me how to place the fishing rod on my hip, feel the sway

of waves against the line, the tension of the current. Taught

me to wait for the pull, to stare into the distance

but never lose the feel in my hands.

Bait the hook, cast out the line, feel the weight break

through the waves, sink and settle on the bottom.

The water's sparkle soothed. But the wait

and undertow around me unsettled.

At sundown, my mother hooked her own bait of bourbon.

I'd wait for the tug, watch her thrash about, crash

into her own waves of weariness.

She hooked me, too, as I tried to balance my small weight

against her monster pull. 

She never taught me how to cut the line.