The old man and the fish
I walked into a courtyard and saw a pool for fish.
I stepped closer to better peer through the dark shadowed water.
Do I look childish looking at the fish?
An orange one, 2 black ones, I smile then leave to a nearby bench.
I sit there an hour, pondering and writing silly things much like this.
Many people walk past the pond without a glance towards its inhabitants, but every so often a fish jumps and scatters its bliss into the open air.
An old man stops in front of the pool.
He looks into the shadows and smiles, then waves at the fish.
He caught my glance as he turned away.
Did he think I thought him silly?
No, one who waves at fish is far too wise to care.
Though he’ll never know how I admired him nor the joy that spilled over to me from his greeting to the fish.
Not long after a young couple lingers by the pool.
Swaying, giggling, eyes lit with glee, while taking in the fish and each other.
They welcomed the fish into their dance of love and presence.
Time moved slowly even for me.
Finally, a child walked by — a little girl scrambling towards the pond, exclaiming and pointing and piercing the courtyard with her earnest appreciation.
Her and her mother begin to leave, but she runs back to look at the fish once more.
Her mother takes her hand and the girl protests as she follows.
One day she’ll be free to visit longer with the fish, but will she still care to stay?
When do we stop looking at the fish?
Why does the wonder, awe, and excitement we feel for the simple things in life fade away, only to reappear in glimpses while in love, and regained by few before their time runs out?
When did we stop looking at the fish?
Perhaps what we’ve lost is still with them.
And so they swim, and wait, for us to stop by a little while, and wave.