I throw Bob a rope.
In my hands, the rope turns to light.
Bob lets the rope go past him.
Then Bob waves and walks away.
Across the river, Bob walks.
On top of the water, I watch Bob walk.
Like this, Bob is walking.
Back to the other side.
Bob walks and he walks and he keeps on walking.
Bob keeps on walking until Bob is nothing but a sound.
Bob is nothing but the sound that the river sometimes makes when a stone is skipped across it.
I go home because I don’t know where else to go.
I haven’t been home in days, in nights.
I’ve been out on the river, these days and nights, looking for Bob.
I tell this to my son who asks me where have I been.
My son says he thought his daddy was dead.
He says that his mother told him that the river took Daddy away.
Just like the river took Bob, I say, to myself.
I’m not gone, I say so to my son.
I say, Daddy’s right here.
Don’t go back on the river, my boy says to me then.
I tell my boy I won’t.
This, I can tell you, is a lie.
In the morning, first thing, I go out on the river.
I go out looking for Bob.
Let me tell you too.
This is a fish story that does not end.
This is the story of Bob.
Remember his hands.
His knuckles are rivers.
The skin on his hands, fish-scale covered, it looks like they’ve been dipped in stars.
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