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42 losT bobbers Where do they go, those blinking plastic eyes that scan for fish; those red-and-white basketballs that bluegills dribble around lily pads; those cork cigars that tilt and fall over like drunks; those bubbles clear as foam riding the current’s rush? When i was nine, i found nine good ones sloshing in a hollow log, filled my tackle box and ran home, feeling rich. every day, kids find a few nested on shore, or circling in pools, tired fish still on the line. The rest escape. do they keep drifting to the sea, then roam like flying dutchmen until Judgement day? do they crack on rocks and sink, flickering down to lie with gold doubloons and sailors’ bones? i want them to float on and on, past the horizon, off the world’s edge to a place where all children who’ve ever lived—even those their parents hated, those beaten and worked to death, tortured and starved—stand side-by-side on one long pier, each with a fishing rod stretched over the green water’s fall and rise. hearts bouncing, they watch the bobbers bump and glide against the tide until one dives, and a child feels the fish, potent as blood, the pulsing power of its otherness. “daddy! help!” the child screams. And daddy comes running. “reel! reel! That’s the way,” he yells, and grasps the rod just enough to ease the strain, not enough to steal the glory as the sky ignites and night drags the sun’s gold bobber down. ...

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