Father of Reeds

"You’re yelling without your ridiculous words."

Wind rustled through the wet reeds. Mild, evening surf brushed against the shallow skiff, rocking it like a mother soothes her neighbor’s baby—not her own.

Daizen Ito, seated precariously on the boat’s slimy floor, wondered if he’d ever get to know what it’d be like to cradle his own child. Would he enjoy rustling the child’s soft, black hair? Would he be proud of the child for stumbling? The questions held his breath as the very same wind from the reeds threatened to pull his wide-rimmed, straw hat off, off, off into the wetlands. He could not tell if the reeds stretched a house-length or a city-length. Perhaps it didn’t matter.