Gutting Fish

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, then you know that I’m a huge fan of Melissa Cistaro’s writing.

This latest is one of her shortest, yet had me guessing as to where she was taking us.  The last sentence stunned me.

I offer this “snapshot” from Melissa as it resonates with my recent posting on “Why we see what we see and don’t see what we don’t see.”

Again, I invite you to consider what influences the way you “see,” approach relationships, challenges, and the overall life you are creating.

The Catch

by Melissa Cistaro

By the time they slid out of the cooler and onto our front porch, the ice surrounding their slippery bodies was nearly melted.

“Six silver Steelhead. Fresh out of the Klamath River,” announced my mother.

They were sterling, pewter, and black. Yellow-eyed and long as my legs.

My mother pulled out a buck horn knife and made a line, clean and silent across the soft belly. A drop of rich red splattered between her pink toenails. She shoved the knife in deeper. I heard the sound of thin bones snapping like taut strings, the steel point of the knife scraping along a fine backbone. Her fingers full of turquoise rings, yanked at things inside of the fish.

I was afraid of her. She wasn’t predictable when she was drinking.

“Look at these,” she said to me.

In her hand she held out three round fleshy balls. I winced. She pushed them closer to my face. They were like antique marbles, giant freshwater pearls—rare eggs with deep green and creamy swirls. They glistened in her palm.

“Aren’t these amazing?” she said, squeezing my arm. I didn’t want to touch them. And then I did. Fish guts. Soft, wobbly, and wet.

Perhaps now, so many seasons later, and her gone, I understand it better.

It was my mother who taught me beauty could exist in anything.