My First Love
When I close my eyes, a mix of blues, teals, and grays comes to mind. Fresh air and pristine clear creeks. I see myself as a child looking down to my feet, making sure my footing is secure with each step I take forward across the river. I’m in a canoe, hands gripping the paddle as we move to the end of the lake and into the lily pads. I’m waist deep in the murky ocean water, bracing myself against the waves, looking across the inlet to the volcano silhouettes and a sun that doesn’t set. I’m standing on the bank, staring hard into the muddy water, watching for movement. I’m following closely, weary of the bear and her three cubs. My hands are throwing line out, casting into the water, tying knots, never empty. The fish are brilliant, fresh, huge. I catch first the trout, a vibrant display of all the colors in the rainbow. Salmon are next. Red, silver, green scales flash in the sunlight. Chinook are the start of summer, followed by sockeye, then coho. Each return to the river, spawn, and die, every year at the same time and place, and every year, at the same time and place, I remember my first love.