Old Woman Fishing

There was an old woman fishing on the edge of the creek today. I saw her there in the mid-morning hours, camped out there, as if she had been at it for hours. She was sporting a wide-brimmed fisher’s cap, or maybe it was even a gardening hat — they all look the same to me anyway — pulled low over her eyes to shield out the piercing sun. Yet, she wore no sunglasses in the haze, a peculiarity indeed. Or maybe the peculiarity was simply her presence there, with that long pole in her hand, reeling in the line.

I knew her on sight, as anybody would who has lived in the village for more than a couple of weeks. She is the woman of the tale, the one about the magic fish that dances down the line instead of being pulled in. It’s a rebel, and so is she, wearing white socks with her black pants, and speaking in a language only known to her. Which is okay, because the village would be rather boring without her eclectic personality to shake things up.

I imagine her out there in the winter wearing the exact same outfit but never freezing, never cold. And I sometimes paint wings on that mental picture, stretching out toward the sun, in the bleak mid-winter. I believe she deserves that much, because I understand what it’s like to be an outsider in my 0wn world, looking through cloudy glass or filmy creek water and seeing a reflection even I don’t truly see. She the outward representation of my own inward struggle.

And I appreciate her for it, the clarity she brings to me as she sits there oblivious to my existence, reeling in that line with or without the dancing fish on it. Even though she will never understand how she has affected me, I realize it’s okay. It’s enough.

Sam