the phone rings—
my grandmother’s voice winds through static,

light as the creek curling around her back porch,
where, as a kid I’d sit, catching fish

on a thin metal pole: perch, bluegill, and trout
thrashing wild in my little tin bucket.

In the afternoon sun, I’d trudge my catch
to the kitchen, and she’d fry them up crisp,

smiling as they hit the cast iron pan,
the iridescent pool of oil.

These days, I sit with greater patience,
hoping weekly to reel even the smallest glimpses

of the porch, and the kitchen,
and my grandmother’s laughter,

before the hum of the creek fizzles out
and only the weight of the line remains.

Listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by Carl Heyerdahl on Unsplash