The Yale Review

1 4 7 R T H E S A N D Y H O O K F I R E H E N R Y H A R T Like a monk hunched over gilded letters, my brother studied flies hatching on the Pootatuck, picked a red and gold Parmachene Belle from a metal box, tied it to a tippet and cast it toward trout rings in a willow’s shadow. He never saw wind hurtle sparks from the fire pit in the field, dry weeds flare like gunshots, charred canvas flap from tents. As he fished others tore o√ shirts to beat the flames rushing in a black circle toward the explosive woods. Heat melted our counselor’s eyebrows and arm hair to stubble. At dusk he dumped our scorched backpacks in a latrine and buried them. All I carried home was a snapped fly rod and a Polaroid of my brother’s Rainbows. Last May, we fished our way back to the burnt field, talked about Sandy Hook and caught nothing. Today I cast my brother’s ashes on the river where his line still loops toward trout rings, his face still floats beneath willows, a shadow among shadows. ...