He'll stay with me too, I suppose, the old man thought and he waited for it to be light. It was cold now in the time before daylight and he pushed against the wood to be warm. I can do it as long as he can, he thought. And in the first light the line extended out and down into the water. The boat moved steadily and when the first edge of the sun rose it was on the old man's right shoulder.
"He's headed north," the old man said. The current will have set us far to the eastward, he thought. I wish he would turn with the current. That would show that he was tiring.
When the sun had risen further the old man realized that the fish was not tiring. There was only one favorable sign. The slant of the line showed he was swimming at a lesser depth. That did not necessarily mean that he would jump. But he might.
Santiago doesn't know what the day has in store for him. Doesn't know if or when the fish will show itself. All he can do is sit in his little boat and wait to see what happens, which way the fish will pull him. North. South. East. West.
It is difficult to imagine the future. No matter how much you plan or prepare, the future pulls you in whatever direction it wants. A month ago, my sister was alive. My daughter's car was still on the road. A year ago, my mother was still alive. A year-and-a-half ago, I was working in a cardiology office. A little over two years ago, the pandemic was a rumor, barely taking up enough space in the public consciousness to interrupt a nap.
Now, here we are. COVID-19. Alpha. Beta. Gamma. Delta. Omicron. Almost six million people dead of the virus. My mother gone. Sister gone. I'm working for a library. In the past year, I've spoken with two U. S. Poets Laureate and released two spoken-word CDs of my poetry.
I never imagined, when I was sitting down to Christmas dinner with my family in 2019, that this is where I would be. When my brother died eight years ago, I never thought that death would become such a familiar face at my dining room table. Or that I would have the cell phone numbers of Natasha Trethewey and Joy Harjo in my iPhone contacts.
I've lost some big fish these last few years, but I've landed some, as well. And it seems as though I've been working through the stages of grief forever. Here's the thing: grief really isn't about stages. You don't move from denial to anger like you're changing airplanes to get to your final destination. Grief is more like a house you live in, moving from one room to another and back. Some days, you sit on the couch in denial, and then spend the evening soaking in the anger bathtub before going to bed in the depression suite. When you wake up in the morning, you go to the bargaining breakfast nook.
That's the way grief is. Wildly shuttling between all kinds of different emotions. I think, about a week ago, I went through all five stages of grief in one morning and then went back for second helpings of each.
I wish I knew exactly when the big fish of my life will show itself. I don't. Instead, I just sit in my little boat and watch the water.
Saint Marty is getting a little seasick of this trip.
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