On the St. Joseph: Part 2

February 18th 2023

Over the next few weeks, the sun began to shine slightly more than before, and the ice became more and more transparent as the layers melted away. Most mornings before school, I peered outside at the bundle and recorded how much still remained above the ice. Each day, it sank further below the surface. 

Before we knew it, April was upon us and the last of the ice that hadn’t broken away and floated downriver lodged itself against the shoreline and came to rest. It had been a week since the last time I caught a glimpse of the tree and I found myself anxious to drag the canoe out from its hibernation place. So, we did. 

The tangled mess of chicken wire and rope, now nestled on the mucky floor of the river, still appeared as it did when it laid on the concrete basement floor. The loose branches swayed slightly with the current. Sun flickered off of the tale of a largemouth bass who swam cautiously. Curiously. 

… 

For the three summers that followed, my father and I fished the greatest bedding spot in the entire river. In the afternoons, others would gather on the water, reeling in bluegill, sunfish, bass, pike…muttering under their breaths, wondering what mess brought such a colony to the river.

Some nights I took the canoe out, tossed the anchor down into the depths and waited. As the wind stilled, the water followed behind, settling like glass. Sitting in the canoe, I witnessed bass surfacing as the mayflies hatched off the water. Bluegill constantly danced where the setting sun left a shadow of my father’s canoe. As the night sky rose above me, I was often greeted by the moon and rocked to sleep by the soft movement of life that lay intricately designed below me. 

Last Christmas, the tree stood untouched through New Year’s Day. The needles at the ends of the branches began to brown and evict themselves, sprinkling the tree skirt and carpet below with tiny brittle pins. I vacuumed twice before I finally walked through the living room without getting one lodged in the bottom of my foot. Maybe it was three times. Three was your favorite number.