Gone Fishing

A friend I once knew loved water. He loved
To drink it, to swim in it, to look at it, to just
Be around it. Every Saturday morning when
The clouds didn’t choke out the sun, he’d
Take his remote control boat out to the lake
Next to his house with his father. The pair
Would launch the little white thing off a small
Jetty and chase it with their eyes until its life
Ran out and they had to fish it out of the water;
The red stripe down the side glided over the
Lake as if it were carried on the wings of angels.
Every day, without fail, he would drink at least
Three litres of the stuff and would always have
Two bottles, one of which was always nearly
Empty; only the dregs of remained. He had an
Extensive collection of glasses from all the places
He had visited; Venice, Cannes, Barcelona. Some
Shattered the light and others curved it gloriously,
And he couldn’t help but smile in the majesty of
All the colours and miniature waves that resonated
Around the rim of the glass when it was complete.
As time went on, however, his fascination with
Water slowly died; the reflection of the light in
His eye dimmed and became cloudy as he began
To distance himself from the stuff. His glass
Collection gathered dust. He no longer swam, and
There were no ripples in the small lake he used
To call home and live in, although it now is his
Home. He stopped drinking and eating. He no
Longer took his boat out to the lake next to his
House. It lay in the middle of the water. Alone.
Some day last October, I took a short walk in
The rain to the body where his dead ship sails,
And found his father weeping. They had fished his
Body out of the lake three days prior. Two parents
Mourned, and one red-striped boat was stuck in an
Addiction, an obsession, a fascination with water,
Bobbing peacefully, creating ripples through my
Mind without drinking, swimming, or looking.
Just by being there.