My father, my father’s father,
born in Pescadero amongst goats, artichokes, and sea,
a cigarette between his lips,
shuffled boots in the rocky streets, kicking up dust on the way down to the river,
the august air heavy and dry,
past Duarte’s Tavern and duck pot pie,
down to the river,
where his ashes now reside,
carried by my father hands alongside his brother
down to the river to fish,
leg dangling in the sun,
toes brisking the water so gently and warm,
a frog croaks, the creek burbles
sun burnt ears and neck,
hands scratched bloody from old hooks and new lines,
hands that have become my father’s,
hands that have become mine,
muscling fish,
gutting descaling cleaning
with one brisk slice straight through the belly.
the hands have been passed down
constantly working, fiddling,
scratched, bruised, or bleeding,
holding back a little more knowledge each time,
keeping secrets to ourselves
crumbling the daughters and sons.
Mari Huglin is a current undergraduate senior with majors in International Affairs, English Literature, and History. She is from Oregon and enjoys writing about literature, politics, film, and cycling with some creative poetry on the side.
Huglin says about the piece: “‘Fishhooks In Your Hand’ is inspired by my grandfather and father. It deals with the ideas of generational knowledge and where my family comes from in California.”
“Les Andelys, Côte d’Aval”, Paul Signac (1886).