The Fisherman

Old Ibrahima fished from the same rock for fifty-three years. The rock was black and flat and slightly tilted towards the sea, as if the ocean had once tried to pull it in and then, out of respect, decided to leave it alone.

He did not fish for money. His wife earned enough, and his children had grown up and moved to cities with tall buildings and short patience. He fished because the sea, he said, was the only conversation partner who did not repeat itself.

When I was a boy I asked him what the sea talked about.