Friday, November 14, 2008

88. THE SAD FISHERMAN

THE SAD FISHERMAN
Having made catch, the fisherman went home.
He'd lived by the lake for years : twelve as a young married,
and then - after his wife died young - another twelve as
a crotchety recluse involved with his work. There weren't many
who spoke with him, nor of him. Like a once-a-year
flower, blooming suddenly at night, he was watched
if not revered only for what he might do. Ever-sentinel,
people kept watching. They saw him chop wood in the
relentless cold; they'd watch him wilt at lakeside
in the brutal Summer heat. One day - apparently when
no one watched - he went to the tool shed, where he
kept some possessions, sat down in a chair,
and blew his brains out. Later, when they
found him, no one knew what to say.
There was a note found too, pinned
to his chest, stating:
'Whatever it is this may signify to
you all, to me it's merely one further
sign of my sad resignation
for the sorry state of
my overdue life.'

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