The fish moved steadily and they travelled slowly on the calm water. The other baits were still in the water but there was nothing to be done.
"I wish I had the boy," the old man said aloud. "I'm being towed by a fish and I'm the towing bitt. I could make the line fast. But then he could break it. I must hold him all I can and give him line when he must have it. Thank God he is travelling and not going down."
What I will do if he decides to go down, I don't know. What I'll do if he sounds and dies I don't know. But I'll do something. There are plenty of things I can do.
The old man has been at it a long time. So long that he can tell what a fish is doing simply by the way his fishing line moves between his fingers. By the way his boat is moving in the water. Santiago never seems to give up. He always has options.
I wish I were more like Santiago. I vacillate between high-in-the-sky and down-in-the-dumps. There isn't a whole lot of middle ground with me. When I'm down, I eventually pull myself back up, but it takes a lot of talking to myself and sessions with my therapist.
The other thing that helps is getting together with my writer friends. You wouldn't think that poets would be that reliable and grounding. Most people think of Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath and Dylan Thomas when I say the word "poet." In a lot of people's mind, poets are alcoholic, mentally ill agoraphobes with a penchant for self destruction.
However, my little support group of poets makes me laugh, sends me cards, celebrates my successes, and shares in my sorrows. We all have our struggles. None of us is perfect. Yet, somehow, I always find myself a better person when I'm able to spend time with them. Like tonight.
I went into the workshop I was leading this evening in quite a dark place. By the time it was over, I was laughing and feeling loved. Thanks to my peeps. (Yes, I used the word "peeps.") I will carry that into the week with me.
Saint Marty isn't quite ready for Monday, but he's not quite Sylvia Plath, either.
Something from workshop tonight . . .
On the Evening of the Day You Died
on the end of her leash, pulling,
digging in the snow. The wind
in the lilac branches, limbs of maple
scratched and moaned. It was a sound
that made the cold seem colder,
the stars, fragile as crystal. I didn't
move. My dog stopped, as well.
The moment lasted only 20 or 30
seconds, but it stretched out
like piano keys of darkness
on the winter solstice. I listened
to the wind sing, the rest of the world,
sigh and sob like cantors
at vespers, and I thought of you.
How your last breath came and went
so softly that morning that I am still
waiting, two days later, for you
to wake.
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