Burning Remnants

The night after I pull the boat, I stack split spruce, roar a fire to life,

walk to the shed, return with belongings left behind by summer’s clients.

From the inherited collection, I remove a sweater crusted with dried halibut slime,

a showpiece in a photo of a proud couple, the man embracing his catch more firmly

than his wife on the night of their first date. She insists it stay behind,

looks out of vogue, expecting scent and size will wear better on me.

I toss the talisman into the flames. Next from my benefactors - neoprene gloves,

one finger missing. After campaigns of pulling anchors and filleting, their utility and

stench no longer needed. I rub them and lower into the eager flames,

witness a melting mollusk. The booty reveals three caps, reshaped by hope and rain.

One with red polka dots worn by a loudmouth from Reno, who won’t stop joking

until the morning he chums breakfast into the Icy Straits. The green camouflaged

cap keeps the cigar-smoking millionaire and his bait herring invisible to fish.

The last cap, an imitation worn by a full bird colonel, bold blue

with scrambled egg pattern, front-side, is bestowed to me by a man

who breaks a law of the sea. While battling a coho,

he comments how this lunker will look mounted on the fireplace wall just before

his buddy expertly knocks it off with the net. Further items bequeathed- flip-flops,

toe pieces gone, baggy sweats, draw string missing, rain pants, slit up the rear,

follow the previous treasures into the red embers. I then retrieve a thermos from

the bottom of the bag. Its inner glass chamber shattered to smithereens.

I shake the thermos, imagine the small shards of glass like fleeing salmon fry in

patterns of flight. It needs be stored. After a long season, new campaigns await next

year’s runs. Believers will return, seeking the catch of a lifetime. Some will leave

behind remnants to be put on the pyre. Others will depart with ones that didn’t get

away, and stories which grow beyond outstretched arms.