The River.

He was never good at rolling tobacco but he considers it a repetitious sacrifice. 
Like his prayers in the morning. 
Awkward and sometimes ugly. 
Rolled and folded with rips and tears and tobacco leaves poking out 
where they shouldn't.  
Squeezed too hard in some places and too wet in others.
Regardless of cosmetics he lights it up and lets the smoke rise to the heavens
in no particular straightforward path, 
figuring God likes repetition as well. 

This morning he is down by the river.  
Fishing for lunch and dinner.  
Talking, and telling the river his stories and ambitions.
Remembering all the other times he sat there expecting to pull a fish from the water. Regardless of whether he could see the fish or not, 
knowing it was there for him to harvest.  

Telling his son about all the monster fish he had caught in the past.
With his son asking if they were going to catch anything that day or not.
"Maybe next time son." he would say 
as they packed up their fishing poles and tackle. 
Knowing full well that it may not be next time or even the time after.
It will be God's timing. 
His son noticed his father’s  jaw unconsciously clenching, 
but didn’t say anything.   
Looking down to make sure not to trip on the bare roots in the trail 
and looking back to his father to see when it stops.  
Wondering to himself why they keep coming back to the same river.
His father knew it will be when the river is ready to give up the fish 
that  they will eat fish for dinner. 
His father knew they needed the river
more than they need lunch for today.