Once, when I was twelve years old I went fishing by myself in the creek that runs across my grandparents' property. Fishing there is never a very successful venture due to the minor depths of the creek itself, but my memory tells my that this time I had caught something. I held the trout under the water to clean it and I dropped my Great-grandfather's knife into the creek. I stepped over to keep from falling in and when I did so I kicked up a cloud of mud and silt and lost sight of the knife. I don't remember how long it took me to find it on hands and knees and the icy water but I remember the determination with which I searched. I wouldn't have left that knife there for the world. Besides the stories, that knife was the only thing I had of his and he wasn't coming back.
This is an excellent metaphore for this year thus far.
If anyone needs me next week, I'll be home. In Colorado. My great-grandmother has passed away and there is nothing on earth that could keep me from my family right now.
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