The River ghosts

Almost every day I metaphorically go to the river. I slowly pull the oversized waders on over my jeans and sweat shirt. I sit on a rock beside the river and I listen for the ghosts. I beckon them to come as I fumble to tie the fly to the line. I put the willow wicker creel over my shoulder and in the final moments of prayer for the catch and release of dreams, I put on the hat. The hat that traveled a very long journey from the tall cowboy who wore it first (my granddad) to the man who taught me every nuance and love of the rivers secrets (my dad). I hear the river calling their names and I rise. I hear a rustle in the bushes and I see for one flash in time a little brother who played hide and seek there. His shortened life long loved the rivers language. The ghosts of them are with me now.

4 Comments on “The River ghosts

  1. Pingback: The River Ghosts | The Keeper Of Me

  2. Beautifully said. We all have those whispering ghostly places inside us. Our memories come with the terrain of living. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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