The Last Tackle Box
I have to keep things in order. I have to stay on top of things. I have an inward voice that says "dust and polish and straighten." be it a curse or a cause, who knows and not too long ago, I was doing my polishing attempt, struggling between the sun's rays on the water, the river and the calling of the cabin's needs and I gave in to the domestic side of the day, only to sigh and pause at the decision.
Like a child at recess, I was bouncing between the need and the want, the calling of the water before me and the chores before me. Seems the day in LA always senses a detour and off I go, wandering between land and sea. And all the need to be, and the need to do, wanders off, as if the call of the water huddles down and takes it all away, and I lock the door and off I go.
Maybe it was the grayness in the day, maybe it was the threatening of rain and a summer's storm, but for whatever reason, I was destined in that day, to stay put and work and organize; oh how dreadful, an inbound day in the confines of work, but on doing so, I ran across, the last tackle box.
The last tackle box, so rusted, so old, so dusty, so squeaky, I pulled it out. I opened it up. There it was all hidden behind other things, all the while, the new evidence of updated fishing trinkets surrounded my sight, all the latest up grades.
Slowly I opened it up, gently pulling at the sides, and as I viewed and touched each lure, I saw my old world open up and talk to me.I saw Daddy stringing line and lures, casting a rod, and pulling in fish. I saw Granddaddy stringing a leader and setting rods for trolling. I saw schools of Skip Jacks and Blues and Bonita. I saw gig hooks bringing on board Spanish and Kings. I saw days on end of fishing and boating and waves washing over the bow of the Nellie. I saw waves crashing and dipping and rolling with the Gulf. I saw sun and sky, surf and resilience and success. I saw summer.
The last tackle box, not the last memory, just the first in a stream to come.
