Lorian with one of her grandfather’s old sparring partners
“I had visited my grandfather’s grave in Ketchum
the summer I had caught the marlin, arriving at
the small hillside cemetery on a scalding July day,
a half-finished fifth of vodka in one hand, a filter-tip
cigar in the other. I’d made my way to the simple
marble slab marked by a white cross, and stood
swaying over the marker for a long time, expecting
epiphany, resolution, a crashing, blinding flash of insight….
I wanted to say something of value to the old man,
perhaps that I had met a dare he had set forth by example,
but nothing came. The neck of the bottle grew hot in my hand.
I tipped it to my mouth, taking a long swig, then poured the
rest, a stream of booze, clear as Caribbean waters, at the head
of the marker. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘have this,’ and walked away.”
the summer I had caught the marlin, arriving at
the small hillside cemetery on a scalding July day,
a half-finished fifth of vodka in one hand, a filter-tip
cigar in the other. I’d made my way to the simple
marble slab marked by a white cross, and stood
swaying over the marker for a long time, expecting
epiphany, resolution, a crashing, blinding flash of insight….
I wanted to say something of value to the old man,
perhaps that I had met a dare he had set forth by example,
but nothing came. The neck of the bottle grew hot in my hand.
I tipped it to my mouth, taking a long swig, then poured the
rest, a stream of booze, clear as Caribbean waters, at the head
of the marker. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘have this,’ and walked away.”
– Lorian Hemingway,
Walk on Water, ch. 11