The Fisherman

When I remember that fisherman
Walking out of our house every morning
Before breakfast begins, I think.
Now, we seemed to distant, his heart
As usual, too far from my own.

I try to recall it again, that moment
I last caught him stepping off
From the door, and walked to the boat.
His back that looked so strong
It never stooped down while walking
And always, it remained unmoved.

He pushed the boat, that time
Slowly and without his usual ease
As though he was doing it for the first time.
He never tried to look back, continued
To look forward to the open sea
Then jumped inside his boat and rowed.

That was the last time I saw his back,
Not his face that knew too well how
To hide affections with his fanciful grunts.
I never really understood why he never
Returned back, safely, to the shore
And a few steps further, to our house.

Two nights, Nanay and I waited at the door
Her neck outstretched far at the horizon
With her tears streaming down.
I watched her cry, and I cried
Not because I missed her husband
But to let her know I was still there.

Some fishermen found his body somewhere
Caught in some broken debris
And delivered him back to the shore.
I looked at his bloated face and remembered
His usual, fanciful grunt that always said,
Do not cry, I am not your father, after all.

-Aaron Jalalon-