He slid the carcass overboard and looked to see if there was any swirl in the water. But there was only the light of its slow descent. He turned then and placed the two flying fish inside the two fillets of fish and putting his knife back in its sheath, he worked his way slowly back to the bow. His back was bent with the weight of the line across it and he carried the fish in his right hand.
Back in the bow he laid the two fillets of fish out on the wood with the flying fish beside them. After that he settled the line across his shoulders in a new place and held it again with his left hand resting on the gunwale. Then he leaned over the side and washed the flying fish in the water, noting the speed of the water against his hand. His hand was phosphorescent from skinning the fish and he watched the flow of the water against it. The flow was less strong and as he rubbed the side of his hand against the planking of the skiff, particles of phosphorus floated off and drifted slowly astern.
"He is tiring or he is resting," the old man said. "Now let me get through the eating of this dolphin and get some rest and a little sleep."
The old man knows the way of the sea and the fish in it. He knows that, in a matter of seconds, his luck may change and a shiver of sharks show up to rob him of his catch. Santiago is wise to the currents and whirlpools and waves of life.
Last night, I wrote about understanding the world through poetry. And I wrote about necessary evils, those things we do every day that really don't provide purpose or meaning to our lives but are still vitally important to survive and remain healthy. I wrote about joy and heartbreak.
Being a parent is all about joy and heartbreak. For a short period of time, we are entrusted with the life of another little human being, to nurture and teach and love. Then, just when you think you're getting the hang of this parenting thing, they are gone. Moved out. Working swing shifts. Married with children of their own.
As the father of an adult young woman now, I can say that I'm having to relearn how to be a father. I can't step in and fix all my daughter's problems. (I probably never could, but it's a lot easier to fake it when your child is younger.) Instead, I have to step back and let her chart her own course, make her own mistakes, because that's how adults learn: they fuck up and then try hard not to fuck up in the same way again.
At the end of last night's post, I said I was still processing and coming to terms with parenting and loving a grown child. I'm not a big fan of change in any way, so I have struggled with this shift. As 2022 draws to a close tomorrow, I can catalogue all the changes in my life: the death of my sister, the death of one of my best friends. my daughter moving out of our home, my son starting high school. So many more. All of these changes have brought blessings and grace into my life. And pain and disappointment.
That's life. That's parenting. To paraphrase one of my daughter's favorite authors as a child: it's a series of fortunate and unfortunate events. As I said last night, I understand these events by writing about them. Poeticizing them.
So here's the poem Saint Marty promised last night:
Sadness and Disappointment: A Parent's Lament
by: Martin Achatz
I often wonder if Joan of Arc's
father ever told her how much
he wished she had been more
of a homebody, chopping leeks
into broth, baking dark loaves
of bread, churning butter for birthday
cakes she never made him because
she was too busy leading armies
and being burned at the stake.
If Michelangelo's mother ever told
him to put down his brushes and chisel,
for once make his bed, wash
his dishes after he ate the pasta
she worked on all day to make
out of the eggs he never fetched
from the coop for her. How about
Aretha's dad saying he'd have a lot
more respect for her if she would
remember to take off her boots
before she tromped through
the living room, tacking snow
all over the hardwood floors?
And Martin's mother saying
she had a dream of him putting
his dirty socks and underwear
in the hamper instead of on
the floor of the bathroom after
he took his 45-minute long
shower, using up all the hot water
in the house. And I'm sure Mary
said to Jesus on more than one
occasion that she would appreciate
a postcard every once in a while,
letting her know that he was
still alive and not lost in some
desert for 40 days, dying
of thirst.
Sadness and disappointment
are part of being a parent, those
million little everyday heartbreaks
kids inflict on their mothers and fathers.
What those kids don't get, probably
never will, is that every time we tell
them to put their pizza boxes in recycling
please and Christmas dinner is at 5 p.m.,
we're actually saying how much we
miss braiding their hair at night, reading
them Charlotte's Web before they go
to sleep, pressing our lips to their
foreheads, knowing that we are still
the ones who love them most,
who stay up late, worrying
that they are stuck in some ditch
at the end of a deserted road
in a town we don't know the name
of, them wishing they had listened
to us, just this one time, when we told
them to stop, please stop
growing up so fast.
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