Just give me time by Addie Tsai

When I was eight years old, my father took us to Armand Bayou, to go crabbing and fishing. He tossed a green net into the air and into the murky water, again and again, and the arc he made pleased me, how the circle cast a ball of light above the water. He had given me a simple fishing line, and I sat on the edge, waiting. I was never one for waiting, just like I am now, even though I have learned to perform patience. I’m good at being patient, I’ll tell you, even though neither of us believes me. It is more to the point to say that I’m good at following directions, but the reason for this isn’t exactly a virtue. The poems I write into my discomfort help me to hold the container of space and time, and that is something true. I wanted to see beneath the surface of the water. I leaned over. My father yelled for me to lean back. It was a game we played, me trying to uncover the world’s mysteries, him keeping me from them with the threat of danger. The danger of his hand usurping the danger he tried to protect me from. That day, the mystery, and my impatience, won, and I fell in. For a moment, I floated beyond consequence, and imagined what it would be like to live like a fish, without want for anything but hunger, and movement. I eventually returned to the earth, the gravity of my greed a laugh ringing in my father’s mouth. Don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. Here, the container is yours now, to cleanse yourself of the world’s anchors. In this light, I am finally seen. Who knew that was all I needed to learn stillness.