Gift of Water

By Jonathon Johnson

Waters of My Migrations:

Marquette.  Most summer afternoons, I walk down to the harbor, buy a chunk of smoked whitefish from Thill’s Fish House, row out in a wooden dory, pull in my oars, and drift. I read, eat my fish, and if a line or two of poetry comes to me, I let it.  When the breeze has carried me across the harbor, I row back and drift again. Occasionally, I row out at night, with friends or alone, through silhouettes of moored sailboats, to get closer to the strewn, silver wreckage the moon leaves of itself as it rises. Each little light of my hometown on the shore’s dark horizon is a story.

Glenelg.  Every year, I drive the single-track road over Ratagan Pass into the Highland Scottish glen in which my family has lived for 700 years. I pull off on the descent to greet the Glenmore River below moving down from the mountains, through the pastures, past the tiny village, and into the Sound of Sleat. Two miles across the sound, the Isle of Skye’s mountains rise in answer to Glenelg’s mainland summits. A tiny ferry crosses between. I sleep in my cousin Catherine’s farmhouse. In the morning, my elderly cousin Uisdean arrives from Riverfoot, his home where the Glenmore joins the sea. “Your breakfast,” he says, and places two mackerel he’s just caught in the kitchen sink…

To read the full story, please pick up a copy of this months Marquette Monthly at one of our distribution outlets.

Twitter Digg Delicious Stumbleupon Technorati Facebook Email

No comments yet... Be the first to leave a reply!

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.