BB Grey–musings

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“Sometimes the smallest catch carries the greatest treasure—if only we dare cast our nets one more time.

b.b. grey

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It was always something
until there was nothing.

Simon lived the only life he knew—
a dockworker with more days off than on,
meeting ends in a manner
not unlike a politician:
smiles,
handshakes,
promises made in passing,
rarely kept.

But he worked.

He didn’t question,
not even when he probably should’ve—
like when Mable,
his neighbor in the trailer park,
asked for his last dime.
She had a death in the family—
couldn’t get there in time.

The plate went round the commune,
landed in his lap,
half-mast.
He filled it to the brim
and prayed he could make up next month’s rent
in the space of seventy-two hours.

He did.
By working those hours.

As for Mable?
He never saw her leave.

But questioning—
that wasn’t part of the deal.

Net. Hooks. Tangles.
Work was blood and gaff.
He learned to fish
and ate for the day.¹

But the taxman worked harder
than Simon ever could.
Rest was a fool’s reward.

The letter came.
Even the little he had—
taken.

If only he’d been given much,
he might’ve added more to the pot.²
But that wasn’t him.
Those weren’t the rules.

A tow truck
greeted him like a red-eyed prophet.
Bessie, gone—
missed more than three payments in a row.

Rent due.
Shoes worn.
And a stone for a pillow
is softer when it keeps the rain out.³

The tax bill,
for the “self-employed”—
a term he never understood.
He punched in.
He punched out.
His check said Joe’s Crabbing Co.

Schoolin’ never took to him.
So he just took the lessons.
But the sum?
He couldn’t add it if he tried.

He dropped to all fours
on a 2×4 patch of linoleum—
kitchenette altar—
and asked,
to anyone or anything that might still listen,
please, this once.

He went to church.
He crossed at the lines.
He did what was asked.
But this—
this was his last.

In a pool of his own making,
he fell asleep.
And dreamt
silver and gold,
a taxman,
and a Gandalf sort—
white cane, beard to his belly,
and eyes like resting water.

Fish, he said.
All will be well.⁴

Simon walked to work the next day.
Pulled up the nets
and there,
caught between pinks and orange,
a silver fish,
glistening like a hallelujah.

At his feet:
a sprawl of crabs.
And in the fish’s mouth—
bullion replete.

He dropped to his knees.
Because this didn’t need schoolin’.
It was miracle,
pure and plain.

The tow truck—forgotten.
The kitchen floor—washed.
Mable—redeemed.
The taxman—paid.
The bills—erased.

Peter* vowed:
never again
would he deny
the power above.⁵

The praying.
The giving.
The fish.
The silver.
The gold.

…at least,
until the next early morn.

When he woke
to the cry of a cock,⁶
fried eggs in pig fat,
ignored the knock at the door,
and planned out Monday—
it being Sunday, after all—

and slept in,
because he figured
he’d earned it.

No lament.

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Footnotes:

¹ Matthew 4:19 — “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” ² Luke 12:48 — “To whom much is given, much will be required.” ³ Genesis 28:11 — Jacob used a stone as a pillow and dreamt of angels ascending. ⁴ Matthew 17:27 — Jesus instructs Peter to find a coin in a fish’s mouth to pay the temple tax. ⁵ James 1:17 — “Every good and perfect gift is from above.” ⁶ Luke 22:60–61 — Peter denies Jesus; the rooster crows and he remembers.

*Simon / Peter Matthew 16:18

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