An Epilogue

I have not posted an entry these past five days because I have been off on a fishing trip. In my previous offering, just prior to my departure, I wrote of going off to fish with my father’s equipment for the first time since his passing. In addition to the great satisfaction of being immersed in the beauty of creation with several fine friends, I also had that long-anticipated opportunity to simply wander the shores of several trout streams and cast my father’s fly rod. (Yes, I actually caught many fish as well.) By passing the time with his own favorite pastime I discovered some more of him in myself. And what could honor or esteem his memory more than such an activity? It is now late, and my day of travel long, but I offer the following poem as an epilogue to my previous entry. I hope you may find such peace in the quiet waters of your own memory.

Casting for Memories
Standing here, in mid stream
With Dad’s fly rod in my hand
I feel a kinship with him
And I better understand
Why he loved so being out here
Away from all the noise
Just standing in a river
In the mountains with the boys
This takes me back to other rivers
Other days from long gone years
Though I fished with him so rarely
What I’d give to have him here
Yet, all I have is memories
So I must cherish those
As they drift through my mind
Much the way this river flows
So cool and refreshing
While marching ever on
Reminding me that every day
Must be cherished ‘ere it’s gone
For now, there’s ample satisfaction
In this river where I stand
Casting … and reminiscing
With Dad’s old fly rod in my hand
By Frank Carpenter ©