Hook, line and sinker. I go fishing most weekends at Coffinberry Lake. Three weeks ago the fish & game guys stocked the lake and now we sit for hours trying every old-man lure we can find. Best on the barbecue wrapped in tin foil with green onions in the belly, olive oil drizzled upon.
I did what the man said--the Youtube guy that wrote a thin book about healing a broken heart. I suppose that’s what’s got me—a broken, or torn heart, now only faded construction paper that I can’t bear to burn. I’ve created stacks of paper scraps and not sure what anyone will do with the filled boxes if I die?
I’ve still got two or so minutes to sum this all up and the clock ticks, shuffling time off into the basement and attics of past I am continually fueling and folding and organizing. Drawing detailed number maps and mazes and there isn’t anyone who agrees to try figuring one out on behalf of me, just being me, and alive.
My daughter returns to tell me how math speaks to English and it’s all about fallacy and the big honey bees that wreck into our window as they buzz the orange azalea bush that blooms every May when I find I’m in need of a new profile pic if I want to attract something new.
Photocredit: Luke Bays/unsplash