My Papa was a hard working man,
Sun up to sun down he got it done
From responsibility he never ran
‘Man shouldn’t eat that won’t work’
That’s what my Papa always said.
Loved making things with his hands too,
Or fixing them making them like new
My Papa was an extraordinary man.
One day Papa finally slowed down,
Took his retirement all in stride
He took up fishing, never did it before
But soon a new passion was born,
‘Where’s Papa?’ I would asked,
‘Gone fishing’, was often the reply
‘He’d go everyday, if I allowed,
But I put my foot down’, Mama said.
I really wanted to go with him
But I think he loved the solitude,
I’d say, ‘Papa, why so early?’
He’d say, ‘that’s when the fish are biting’
Off he’d go with tackle box and poles,
Not to be seen until almost nightfall.
Returning with a bucket full of fish,
And other times with just a suntan.
My Papa was such a proud man
When his body began to hurt
We were the last to know,
After many rounds of medicines
The doctor’s report said no hope
I went real early one morning
To the hospital to see him
In a semi-conscious state he was.
I said, ‘Papa can you hear me?’
His face was contorted with pain.
I said ‘Papa you did a good job here
It’s okay to go the other side,
‘Cause guess what Papa?’ I said in his ear
‘I hear the fish are biting there.’
His face relaxed and in that instance
His spirit left, I knew Papa had gone fishing.
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