I was never one for fishing.

You used to be happy to sit on a couch or a rocking chair on a porch and ponder. No book in hand. No phone at your fingertips. Nothing to twiddle. Nothing to entertain, besides the world and your brain.

Sometimes I wondered how you could just sit and stare and think for so long. Were your thoughts simple or complex? Were you thinking about black holes or fishing holes or toilet bowls? Or were all the things swirling together like they do at the edge of a dream because sooner or later you were inevitably nodding off to sleep?

Your mind was often hard to read even when you spoke. So much more in your silence. I would just laugh and think you were a quirky one.

I was not sure how you could do that for as long as you did. That porch-sitting thing. Almost as though doing such a thing for too long would make me feel uncomfortable.

Why did I never see you were comfortable with the silent seeming pointlessness of porch-sitting because you were just comfortable with you? You who could fish for hours alone. You who had no choice but to learn that there was beauty to be found in alone even when it dressed as loneliness. You who spent day after day under houses and sinks alone on your back with your thoughts. You who loved a long highway drive in the stillness of the blue morning light when the world, all but fishermen and truckers, still slept.

Will my fingers and thoughts forever be fumbling? Or will I ever be comfortable enough with myself and my thoughts for porch-sitting?

Perhaps I should take up fishing after all.

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