Tackle Box

There is no easy way to say  

my dad taught me everything gentle.  

He was an anchor, a slow hum,  

the steady whisper of patience  

that melts into the sound of water.  

From weekends, we learned the art  

of coaxing fish from their quiet world,  

the weight of silence on the line,  

the way sunlight cuts through ripples.  

He held every moment like a lantern,  

even when life felt like storms  

were crashing against my chest.  

His hands—calloused, sure, infinite—  

were always there to guide my sails.  

Yesterday, he slipped behind the horizon,  

and I am left with empty hooks,  

breadcrumbs of his love scattered  

through every inch of who I am.  

I will miss him in the sting  

of a cast, in the solace of water.  

But he is there, beneath the surface,  

still teaching me how to carry the weight.