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The fish market wedged between the local supermarket and a meat packaging plant seemed befittingly located. Accessible to all your needs, right there on the strip of the busiest thruway in downtown. Sarah, a petite young woman, with flawless opaque skin, and eyes the color of England’s country meadows, made her weekly visit. She smiled at my father, with the usual thank you, after purchasing a pound of catfish. Walking into the fish market wasn’t exactly comfortable to her. Her heels bobbled and her nose cringed in discomfort. This week my father waved good-bye with concern. Sarah left the counter with a trail of tears, leaving streams imprinted on her cheeks. As I filleted the last batch of bass, I asked my father, “What was wrong? I know Sarah isn’t the happiest person to walk in our market but she has always been pleasantly discontent.” My father wiped his hand of blood on his apron, and sighed, “She wouldn’t say.” His head dropped, while he picked up a knife to help me with the last bass of our catch. I know my father is a compassionate man. I have watched him sit for hours with a customer, at the corner table of the market, and wave to me to bring more coffee. He never misses a story. His shoulders shrugged in humble defeat. “I can only hope she wasn’t in great danger,” my father mumbled. “We can only pray.”
A week passed, it’s Wednesday, and I wasn’t sure how I had made it this long in wonderment of Sarah’s dilemma. The clock above the cash register glowed neon blue. My father picked it out to resemble the waters of our livelihood. Sarah would come in between four and five o’clock. She worked at the medical supply store. At lunch time I would make my daily run to the bank for my father. Along the way, I passed the store front of the medical supply store. I would see Sarah waiting on customers in her pallid but empathetic disposition. I often wondered if her somber aura was shaped by the many ailments that walked through those red mahogany doors.
The number five on the neon clock was flickering. I gave my father the predicted glaring eyes, ‘just fix it’. He said, ‘Why fix it? It’s closing time.’ The edge of my rubber glove was caught in the door of the cooler, as I reached for a five pound bag of shrimp. There was Sarah; she peered over the plexi-glass to make her catfish purchase. My father shoved the ice with his stainless steel tongs, and reached for the front of the display. He wrapped Sarah’s catfish in wax paper, and placed it in a plastic bag. My father attentively asked, “How are you doing?” Sarah apologized for having been despondent to his questions last week. Her frail hands curled her auburn waves behind her ears. Before she could speak another word, channels of sorrow wept from her eyes. “It’s my father. He attempted to take his life ten days ago. My mother past away nearly a year ago, when they told her she had ovarian cancer, with only three months to live. Life is a short haul, whether you have three months or a lifetime. She was the glue to our family. She lived a life for Jesus. My father never believed. And without her, I’m not sure he will ever believe. I almost lost my father forever. He was in a coma for several days and upon awaking he said ‘Jesus’.” My father flooded in pools of his own tears responded, “Have you told him about eternal life?” Sarah trembled in shame, “the truth is, after my mother passed, I lost my faith.”
Brimming in the Holy Spirit, my father commanded his very familiar imperative, “Get the fishing rod!” It was tattered along the edges, the golden letters were worn off, the man-made leather chipped in places, but the pages were still in tact. His Bible, always placed near the phone, just in case he had to look up a verse. His memory wasn’t what it used to be.
My father pulled out his retractable key chain and locked the doors of his market to open the doors of heaven for any lost soul. Interesting how the Lord would isolate the place in expeditions like this. We had the freedom to leave the market, with a flip of the ‘Were Open’ sign hanging at the front door, to “Gone Fishing.”
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