There was something precocious about the way he brushed his brow with the back of his hand and took to his fishing. Again he frees a tiny hand from his fishing rod and brushes the late morning sweat from his brow. As though his mother looked at him the day he was born and gave him a fishing rod before giving him a name.
He barely looked up at the skyline: kingdoms of ancient conquerors and towers of modern day businessmen. He was still too young to care about someone else’s history, or to preoccupied with his father and grandfather’s way of life.
All of his tiny limbs were suddenly jerked by the pull of a catch. Squinting eyes looked to the tiny dangling fish that flopped in the air millions of miles in front of the morning sun that continued climbing the sky. But from just the right angle the sun also hung from the reeled in line, illuminating a tiny fish that glinted and sparkled and suddenly seemed much more impressive.
He hurriedly unhooked the fish and darted 40 feet down the waterfront to a man with silent eyes and hands that were led by the same morning ritual. “Papa! Papa!” he received a quick nod of approval and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and returned to his fishing at his original spot.
As the ferry pulled into the dock, I sipped the rest of a Turkish coffee that I hoped would chase away the lingering sleep from an all too late night. And as I boarded the ferry to cross the Bosporus the little boy stood just a few feet away with his eyes on the water.
He barely looked up at the skyline: kingdoms of ancient conquerors and towers of modern day businessmen. He was still too young to care about someone else’s history, or to preoccupied with his father and grandfather’s way of life.
All of his tiny limbs were suddenly jerked by the pull of a catch. Squinting eyes looked to the tiny dangling fish that flopped in the air millions of miles in front of the morning sun that continued climbing the sky. But from just the right angle the sun also hung from the reeled in line, illuminating a tiny fish that glinted and sparkled and suddenly seemed much more impressive.
He hurriedly unhooked the fish and darted 40 feet down the waterfront to a man with silent eyes and hands that were led by the same morning ritual. “Papa! Papa!” he received a quick nod of approval and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and returned to his fishing at his original spot.
As the ferry pulled into the dock, I sipped the rest of a Turkish coffee that I hoped would chase away the lingering sleep from an all too late night. And as I boarded the ferry to cross the Bosporus the little boy stood just a few feet away with his eyes on the water.
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| Galata Bridge |
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