My hand became my father's hand that day, for a second or two, as I lifted the fish, and I could feel his loneliness, my father's, like mine, a horse in a stall spooked by guttering candles, the popping and black smoke, the quivering flanks. And if a horse, in its loneliness, couldn't manage to speak, what difference did it make? What could he say? Tell a flickering candle Burn true? Then I thought of my mother, standing in a field with flames in her hair. She was surrounded by deer, statues in a circle around her.
Reprinted from Arrow Pointing North with the permission of Four Way Books. Copyright © 2002 by David Dodd Lee. All rights reserved.