Sitting in his recliner with the TV chattering in the background I dreamed of George. He and Bill were out on the porch and I could both see and hear them. They were talking about fishing. George’s voice was gravelly, the way it was when he had downed a couple of cold ones. “Billy life isn’t like fishing. It isn’t about the sport; it isn’t about catch and release. When they catch one, especially a big one, they take a picture with it, then they cut it open and clean it out, then they eat it all up and bits and pieces go to all their big friends.” George bent down and picked up a big fish and began wrapping it in newspaper. I could see the headline and it said, “Oswald”; just the name, not another word. Then Billy stood up and he had a fish hook stuck in his shirt and blood was spreading across the front. “I’d better get going George,” he said. And then he was gone. George looked right at me and said, “Fishing can be dangerous Livvy. So don’t you go fishing alone. Take an experienced fisherman with you.” I started awake. View From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale-Elizabeth Newton
Posted on: Fri, 31 Oct 2014 13:20:53 +0000
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