They both sat at the side of a pond.

They were fishing but, like is often the case when

fishing, they weren’t talking. Sometimes, the best thing to do, in any situation, is to just sit. Sit
and not talk. Become/Embrace/Visualize the axiom about opening your mouth and removing all
doubt about your being a fool. Another axiom has to do with negotiation where, in certain
situations, the one who talks first will lose. To just sit, sitting and not talking, but thinking is a
priceless thing. Fishing is the easiest time to do this. Partly and under the auspices of because you
don’t want to scare the fish, but more importantly and instinctively because both individuals
know it’s better not to talk. They think and they know, and they are satisfied. And nothing needs
to be said. Questions are asked and answered in each one’s mind. Conversations had. Fishing
allows a man to think and ask and answer all by himself since that is where the answers for the
truly important questions always come from. And that is why men like to fish - the seductive,
sadistic allowance of being alone.

And so they sat. They sat and fished, not talking. Each to his own, never unaware of the
other - in fact, currently thinking about the other and answering the questions he would ask the
other, expounding upon the facts known to him presently, using logic and deductive reasoning
and speculation, speculation of the wildest form, rationing out and pondering various
probabilities of extremes on each end of the possibility spectrum.

Presently, one decided the reason they divorced. He had had suspicions since shortly after
they met. She had told him that there weren’t any others and proclaimed an undying love for him,
but he knew better - or he thought he knew better. He suspected and created wild scenarios with
her and the others and thought about hiring someone, and thought about taping somehow and
doing some things on his own but never did and it was always the smile and proclamation that
kept him from acting on his suspicions. Always that proclamation. It was not the proclamation,
but the thought of what it meant, or might mean, that was what kept him coming home after the
nights when he would leave. He hated to see the bruises and cuts. He hated to see the battered
smile and the thought of her begging for forgiveness. He hated how he felt inside. She deserved
it, he thought, but that could never alleviate nor justify the woman pain of the cuts and bruises.
She was far more forgiving than the other was, but his stomach wrenched every time he saw her.
Even in plain daylight. But they likely divorced for that, he thought. Then he thought of his own
thoughts back then. He thought of the drunken nights when she looked at him. He thought about
how that would be and how he could never face his friend then. And he thought about the one
night when she had clearly gone too far. She was drunk, he thought, but then, so was I. He
figured if it was him, he’d have to forgive her, but not his friend. Or maybe he would. He studied
that for an indeterminate time, then fished some more and changed his bait.

The other said he thought it was time since there were no more bobber quivers like there
were to begin with. He reeled it in and found an empty hook. The fish had taken the bait,
piecemeal, and left the hook waiting for more as they, even as fish, knew would be coming. He
went about the business of retying his line. And he sat. He sat and thought about the other some
more. He remembered. Did that really happen? She was drunk, but so was I. I don’t remember.
He thought he couldn’t remember but he knew he wasn’t really trying. He didn’t want to
remember. And after that, remembering or not remembering, he never looked the other in the
eye. He tried, and would smile and laugh and comment and reply but always trying to erase and
ignore it though he knew he never could, even not remembering.

The other knew. And he sat and fished and made small talk as if he didn’t know, but he
knew. Even without knowing he knew. And the other thought about that too, but chose to stow
that thought away, perhaps out of fear, or fear of confrontation, but it was easier to stow it away.
He knew. They knew. And as the other tried not to remember, so, too, did this one. But neither
could forget despite both pretending not to know. So they fished. And they sat in a turmoil of
silence - the silence that becomes so unbearable that it must be broken for all the tumultuous
thoughts that pervade. So they sat and fished and said nothing until the silence needed to be
broken by a small slice of insignificant reality.

Then as the one was silently forgiving, the other was silently repenting. It was nothing
either had thought of as new, but rather became or evolved or acquiesced to that instinctive
mandate. They simply sat and fished and accepted. A man will kill one who steals his food or
bothers his family, but when it is someone he knows, he must choose. And he usually chooses
against violence, but though he thinks and fantasizes about killing and torture and retribution in
his own manner which is justified by his own hypocritical morality, for he who is doing the
killing is yet just as void of morality than the victim of his own justice but does not realize it, he
casts out and says nothing.

The other said to him that it was getting late and they both agreed. Each pulled their lines
from the water without purchase and neatly tied their tackle and hooks. Finishing fishing is an
acceptable surrender. Finishing without catching anything is a greater surrender. Proverbially,
one thinks about next time, but it cannot be immediately forgotten that there was no luck today
though he tries and thinks about why there were none today, attaching insignificant things as if
they were significant, offering reasons like the weather, or location. They both realized though, as
fishermen, that days without fish are just as likely as anything and so were not completely
disappointed and both had the patience of fishermen. It was that patience that comes always,
learned from nothing other than fishing, where if there is no patience, there is not a fisherman.
Both had known, remembered or learned or not, that patience is more than a virtue, it is
necessary and essential for everyone that is human and they both knew that time cures everything
that matters.

They went fishing again. And they continued in the same fashion, not talking, but
answering their own questions about each other, forgiving and repenting, alternating and in
tandem and changing bait and casting together because they were friends, but they still did not
talk because that would most certainly scare the fish.
 CHAPTER TWO

This time they caught fish. It was after a light rain, and the fish were biting. They caught
and released. A killing and forgiving all in one without killing, but catching. The act of releasing,
an act of forgiveness in it’s own right. One thought, what of the fish. Fish do not repent, fish do
not ask for forgiveness, fish just get caught. And they do not request forgiveness from a judge.
Nor do they request a mitigated sentence. Fish are. Caught. And sometimes they get released.
And as the one released, he thought about releasing, and relished the powerful act he had made,
yet he also thought a moment, just a second perhaps, but enough. Enough to wonder, what if I
slice the belly, transfixing most assuredly on his own desires for revenge on the other again,
believing momentarily that he had control over a situation long past. He thought about cleaning
the fish, but not the fish, slicing the belly, but not before cutting the head off with repetitive
moves of the knife, back and forth with a few flips of the tail in futile, reflexive, rebuttals in vain
we would say, but in mortal seemingly weak and extreme flips to save its own life. But yet it
seemed pleasurable on a certain level to the one. He did not cut back and forth. And he did not
slice the belly, but rather the thought of that which he could, gave satisfaction, almost, of the act.
They continued the fishing, regardless of limits of time, or space, or memory, and they
continued, almost in competition, yes, in competition, and neither telling, nor letting on to out the
competition regardless, even though each would admit and apologize, not saying so.

As the other caught fish, he rejoiced and forgave. He became undeservedly proud without
boasting. He could not boast, and even could not proclaim the reason without shame but yet he
caught and released thinking; “ This is a good thing. I am a good person.” And he felt that
goodness of having done the most insignificant thing, yet knowing that goodness feeling is only
because of something relatively insignificant, but yet makes one feel as though they have saved
the world. This one was confused by his own deficiency and lack of a sense of morality. And
still, he was pleased. And so the catching and releasing were different to him than to the other, as
this one was yet trying to move on, hoping, but recessively and unfortunately knowing the other
was not.

So they caught and released and small-talked with each other. They decided the biggest
fish would be saved for a filet and roasting. They cast out and caught several, but not for some
time did they catch the one they could keep.

So they enjoyed the fishing and catching and releasing and forgiving and releasing and
repenting and releasing and not forgiving and slicing and cutting violently but not and the
releasing. The fish, never knowing, perhaps. They forgave and released over and over thinking
deeply at first, then becoming almost a game.

It was a big fish, a huge fish, and he threw it back. He threw it back. He threw it back
without thinking and for a second, actually lied to himself and thought. It was the one and he
thought at the time at first that releasing the big fish was a small act of retribution so much that
he wanted not to say a thing but that the other would see and know and be confounded and not
say anything but be confounded and wonder why and he knew the other would not, probably, ask
why, so he released and smiled a big smile inside - one that knowing folks have when another
does not realize his wrong and must sit silent and figure it out. “Yes, figure it out, you bastard,”
he thought. He let it go. Part was saying because I can catch a bigger one, and if you think this
was big, you have no idea. And part was hoping he actually could. And yet another part was
thinking it did not matter if he could or not, but at least this once, he had caught a bigger fish and
let it go without thinking and the other had no control. But mostly, he did not want the other to
think that he had given the least of thoughts to the action. They fished some more.

Then the other’s line tugged. Hard. The one noticed, but tried not to. He pulled the rod
back hard, almost tumbling down the embankment but holding dearly. He reeled instinctively but
also did not pull taught, also perhaps instinctively knowing that if he let this one go, he could not
revive self worth. He glanced and caught the other pretending not to notice. And that satisfied
him for the moment, almost more than even catching the fish but he went on fighting. He reeled
and let out the drag, then reeled in some more, then the drag. It seemed an eternity. This one was
a big fish. Together, they saw the fish jump out of the lake’s surface, several yards from shore,
far from reeling in, but enough to realize he’d caught a chance. The fish was bigger than the test
pound line he had, but a good fisherman would be able to pull him in.

In the other’s mind he thought, “that Bastard.” He wished the fish would win. He even
went so far as fashioning an argument for letting it go after the catching since he would surely
catch a bigger one later. He went on pretending not to notice, or rather to meagerly acknowledge
the temporary catching with a nod. He thought. That Bastard. He thought about justice. He
thought about Justice. That Bastard. In an instant he thought the past, he thought about how the
other owed him something, he didn’t know what but he thought it was forever, and he was angry
and desperate and futility reigned in his mind though it wasn’t the Truth, but it was what he
thought and what he thought he deserved, or rather, did not. He was being caught and did not
realize it, but it was his own self that did the catching, not the other, but it was his thinking that it
was the other that was the actual self catching, and again, he cast out and meagerly
acknowledged.

The other began reeling in the big fish closer. He was fighting. Unknown to the other that
the fighting had anything to do with him, but it had everything to do with him. Competition, but
not. The reeling in and hopes of catching, yes for now, the hopes of catching a bigger fish and
attaining some sort of self worth for no other reason than the catching for now, at least, even if
for no one but himself but mostly and certainly all for the other. Undoubtedly, it was for the
other, as it had been since then and would be until he would be relieved by something.
Something, perhaps as large as this. Something to say: “I am worthy of your respect. I am worthy
as a human being. I have worth. See, what a big fish I can bring and, and you cannot. See. See?
Can we be even now?” Yet he knew in those recesses of the mind, he knew it could not, no
matter how big that fish was. Yet he persisted in unknowing vain futility. For he who thinks he
can absolve his own wrongdoings rarely can accurately know how truly to do so and thinks and
hopes further it will occur far sooner rather than later, it necessarily does not. And mostly and
often and always, it is much later, years later. Time later. Time has it’s own way of working out
what is right and what can be absolved and what can be punished and for how long. Time
remains silent to it’s multitude queries of “why?” and “when?” For those answers are never
answered, again, except by one’s self. And one may kill himself attempting in vain for a concrete
answer. In this fashion, he reeled in the fish. The other caught the big fish.

CHAPTER THREE

He, the other, proudly raised the fish, silver and shining momentarily in the sun, flopping,
while trying to grab him, slimy and flailing, hanging from the line not yet helpless and the other
trying not to look like he was about to lose his footing. And the one acknowledged, still hoping,
and started over towards the other in his facadic act. He even yelled; “Don’t let him go!!!” still
yet on the side of the fish for backlogged and many reasons. The other, struggling now between
catching himself on the bank and letting go, grasped for a nub, a stub of any kind, something of
purchase, finding none. He slipped and tumbled, but held on to the rod and the Earth. He grasped
now for life before he would tumble further and into the waters and he felt the futility of the fish,
yet he held on thinking he was Man, and the fish was not. He held on, thinking that his
wrongdoings would not result in this and without knowing and in an instant he became a fish, but
yet held on to this thought as the same as the rod, as he held on. The one came and was there
now. And the one hesitated for one instant, just a moment, smiling inside, but knowing the
situation did not allow such rejoicing, he strove and fought to try to save the other from the
waters but could not. The other fell into the waters, fingernails grasping the steep earthenmud all
the way down to the waters, yet grasping the rod then flailing it up, hopelessly. It was the one
who pulled the rod, left advertently in vain and hopeful by the other as he submerged, and he
tugged. He tugged hard. He tugged harder than he thought he could, harder than he thought he
even would, trying to save te other. He did not know why, as he tugged and pulled, why he would
or should do this yet he did out of instinct. But he realized in an instant that he had a choice. As
the other was drowning before him, he could let it go, or bring him in and he thought of a million
reasons why he should let his friend drown, but he chose. He chose life....and he tugged as hard
as any man could.

And then, the other drowned. Despite the tugging and forgiving and retribution and not
belly-slicing futile attempts at revival, he died. Like a fish. Likely he flopped once or twice, but
he died sadly and without reason, like a fish. The one wished and hoped and finally realized he
could pray for release but could find nothing for his friend. The angst for this put the one in a
state of downwardness as no one had ever seen. And yet, he went on, and quietly fished.