The Stages of Grief
When I was 14, my father taught me about fishing holes. We waded into the shallows of the Platte, the sun at our necks, muddy water lapping our ankles. He would point to the other side of the bank where the otherwise quick, singing water stilled and lay quiet. “That is where the fish rest” he would always say. He taught me to seek the calm that nature provides, despite its haunting chaos. When I was 19, my father taught me that despite seeking out the fishing holes, despite the singing water ar
11/15/2017Hannah Kramer