There are fish again in the Aral Sea.

Fishermen are casting nets. Weathered boats are patched, repaired. The people, learning to row again.

The markets are filled with seafood once more. No longer a distant delicacy. Old recipes appear, renewed.

Older hands remember, quick, the flick and twist of scaling knives. The cut and shove of gutting knives. Unconscious memories of the flesh.

Long-forgotten things return. Welcome, cloaked in familiarity. The taste of trout. The feel of water.

The tenacity of life.


3 Comments

Vee said...

You write beautifully Bea ! Love your work.

StellaNova said...

Words are our friends, our comfort, our solace. Sometimes, they're the only thing that keeps us disappearing into despair. They help us to make sense of things which don't seem sensible. Through them, we can share our heart.

Meg said...

Bea.

What images.

really.

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