That was the last time
we ever spoke of my brother's death.

Indirectly, though, Paul was
always present in my father's thoughts.

I remember the last sermon
I heard him give…

not long before his own death.

Each one of us here today will,
at one time in our lives…

look upon a loved one who is in need
and ask the same question.

"We are willing to help, Lord…

but what, if anything, is needed?"

It is true we can seldom help
those closest to us.

Either we don't know what part
of ourselves to give…

or more often than not,
the part we have to give…

is not wanted.

And so it is those we live with
and should know who elude us…

but we can still love them.

We can love completely…

without complete understanding.

Now nearly all those I loved and did
not understand in my youth are dead.

Even Jessie.

But I still reach out to them.

Of course, now I'm too old
to be much of a fisherman.

And now I usually fish
the big waters alone…

although some friends
think I shouldn't.

But when I am alone
in the half-light of the canyon…

all existence seems to fade to a being
with my soul and memories…

and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot
River and a four-count rhythm…

and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually,
all things merge into one…

and a river runs through it.

The river was cut
by the world's great flood…

and runs over rocks
from the basement of time.

On some of the rocks
are timeless raindrops.

Under the rocks are the words…

and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters.