Pray for Daughters By Thea Atkinson

For the month of April, fellow author, Thea Atkinson is streaking through 30 blogs and flashing us a piece of fiction. I generously offered her a space today so she could expose a piece. My blog will be back to normal tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy and follow the links at the end to see who she flashed yesterday and who she will flash tomorrow. Feel free to leave a comment to let me know if you enjoyed the streak, and you are welcome to tweet it or share it on Facebook. You can also follow the chain through twitter with the hashtag #blogstreak

Pray for Daughters
By Thea Atkinson
http://theaatkinson.wordpress.com

There’s ghosts of too many fishermen on these waters. Each time I hear the splat of a trap breaking water heavy with ice, I hear the moan of one calling out to me, begging remembrance.

My granddad’s out here somewhere. He wanted better than a fishing life for his son, so Gran told me. Wanted better than a fishing life for his grandson — for me. But it’s in the blood, she complained, even as her hand was on the casket that held a photo rather than a body. Her eyes were dry, I remember that even though I was 10 at the time and shouldn’t remember such a detail. Her eyes were dry as though the Atlantic was already made up of her tears, and there was no water or salt left in her to shed over her husband’s empty casket.

“In the cursed blood.” She looked at me. “I wish we’d had daughters. See you get an education, Tom. Find another way to make your living.”

But the sea is a good living. The money, when it’s there, when the fish or lobster or crabs are plentiful, is enough to pay for a house, a car, a monthly mortgage on a boat a foot larger than the last man so you can sail further. Fish deeper.

My boat’s already bigger than Dad’s, bigger than granddad’s biggest dream. Takes me eight hours to sail to my grounds. The wind, bitter with ice pellets, lashes my face, throwing the bagoos around the stern. We come out in far worse weather than granddad’s biggest nightmare. Last week we lost a window to a rogue wave. Yesterday, my first born boy went over. Seventeen years old. Took the first day of the season off from school so he could help dump the gear. Strapping lad. Good kid, one who will never have to worry about fishing for a living.

My wife will never forgive me if I don’t bring him home today, if she has to mourn an empty casket like Gran did, like so many other folk around here have. And how can I tell her that ever since his rubber boot came up, but he didn’t, I’ve been wishing we’d had daughters, not sons the sea will steal.

Today, there’s the ghost of one too many fishermen on these waters.
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