By Rose Perez
Grandpa loved to fish and would rise when the sun did.
He’d take his wooden pail and walking stick.
In turtle pace, he’d plod down Longman’s Trail to Banjo Creek.
One morning, reaching the water’s edge, he spied a fish on the bank.
Upon closer inspection, he was gravely mistaken.
It was no fish but rather, a pale and severed hand.
It was remarkably smooth; no foul odor or decay.
The manicured nails and slender fingers were those of a lady.
Removing a crisp hanky from his pocket,
he wrapped it gently, and then within the pail, he tucked it.